He Made A Promise
by ProudFangirl
Summary: Roger and Mark have always been there for one another. Here's a detailed look into another year of their friendship, through the good times and the bad, as well as the promises at the root of their relationship. Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Okay, so here we go! I discovered the movie RENT a few months ago, (I know, I know, I'm behind!) and I'll admit that I may have become slightly obsessed. I absolutely love the friendship between Roger and Mark, and I really wanted to expand that beyond the year that we get to see in the show. Hopefully each event that takes place in this story, whether good or bad, will serve to further develop that relationship.**

**This is my first attempt at a fanfiction, and I don't claim to be a novelist or anything of the sort, so please bear with me! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. But oh, how I WISH I owned Adam Pascal…

**Chapter 1**

January 20, 1992

Mark stared, horrified, at the dishes that were piled disturbingly high in the kitchen sink. "Roger!" he yelled angrily, directing his shout over the counter at the young man sitting on the couch, quietly strumming his guitar. Mark saw his roommate jump at the sound of his name.

"Roger, I told you it's your turn to wash the dishes! These have been here for like two weeks and this is fucking gross!" Mark tentatively reached out to lift a spoon from the unstable tower of plates and bowls. He quickly dropped it when he noticed an abnormally furry ball of- _What is that?_he wondered curiously- of _something_ that seemed to be growing on the end. He huffed out an annoyed sigh. He'd been hoping that Roger would take the initiative and perhaps do something about the mess, especially since Mark had been the one to wash dishes the last four or five times. But it seemed that Roger had been too preoccupied in the last few weeks to focus on the state of his living conditions.

Mark saw Roger watching him with something that may have been amusement, a slight smirk on his lips, before turning back to his guitar and strumming a few chords. "Chill, Mark. I told you I'd do them." His body rocked slightly as his arm swung up and down against the strings. "Most of those bowls are cheap plastic anyway. Why don't you just throw them out if the mess bugs you so much?"

Mark glared at him, annoyed. "Because then we wouldn't have any dishes."

"Great, problem solved."

He wasn't about to drop the issue so quickly. "You do realize that this is hazardous to our health, right? Especially yours. Who knows what's growing in here?" He knew he was acting like a nagging mother—_my mother_, he realized with dread—but he was fed up with the way that Roger had been acting lately. Mark thought that his friend had been getting his life back on track the last year or so, but in recent weeks Roger had been disappearing frequently and was barely around the loft. If he was, he would retire to the roof with his guitar, or lock himself up in his room. Today was the first time in weeks that Roger actually sat down in the living room where Mark could see him.

The others had noticed the strange behavior as well. The musician was never home when they stopped by, and Mimi had come to Mark more than once asking if he'd heard from him. They hadn't talked about it, but Mark knew that their friends were feeling the same way as he was, though they were all too nervous to bring it up. They were worried. And right now, Mark's worry was coming out in the form of anger.

"Mark, we live in New York City. The germs on our dishes should be the least of your health concerns."

Mark ignored the musician's flippant attitude, eyeing the half-full coffee cup on the table in front of Roger. He quickly strode across the loft and grabbed the cup, skillfully avoiding his friend's desperate swipe for it. Then, returning to the sink, he poured the still semi-warm liquid down the drain before tossing the cup on top of the pile of dishes, causing them to wobble dangerously.

Roger threw his hands up in annoyance. "What the hell?"

"I'm serious, Roger. I'm not going to let you use these dishes until you wash them. You drink out of that mug every day and it probably hasn't been cleaned in weeks."

"Who cares? I'm the only one who uses it."

"Yeah, you and the couple million bacteria that have chosen it as their breeding ground."

Roger glared at him before his expression softened just a bit, and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. Mark realized that he was being over-dramatic, but he had a legitimate fear of Roger getting sick, and his friend knew that. "Look, I'm sorry about the dishes, okay? I'll do them now." He set his guitar aside and rose from the couch, walking towards the sink. He playfully pushed Mark out of his way and reached for the dish soap, then grabbed the mug that Mark had just relieved him of and squirted a generous amount inside. He made a show of meticulously scrubbing the mug, holding it up close to his face and scrutinizing it through squinted eyes, then shaking his head with mock dissatisfaction and scrubbing at it again.

Mark couldn't help but smile slightly at his friend's antics. _He's such a child sometimes._

Roger finally finished washing the mug and carefully dried it with a towel before holding it so close to Mark's nose that he had to take a step backwards to focus on it.

"There. Does it pass inspection, or would you like me to repaint it as well? Maybe put on a nice glaze?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"I'm impressed that you even remember what a glaze is. Ceramics was never your strong suit," Mark replied. He clearly remembered spending days in his high school ceramics class carefully painting various bowls and vases that he'd made while Roger struggled to construct a single piece. They would always end up lopsided, and Roger would always shrug and say that he'd designed them that way.

Mark took the spotless mug out of Roger's hand and set it on the counter. He nodded approvingly. "That's a good start, now keep it up!" He indicated the remaining pile which, in all honesty, stood at quite an intimidating height.

Roger groaned. "How the hell do we end up with all of these anyway? You and I are the only ones who use them. Mimi washes her own…" he paused, brow furrowing with confusion. "And why are there so many dishes if we never even have food?" He reached into the sink, pulling out some dirty silverware. "And what the fuck is _that_?" His nose scrunched up in disgust as he studied the fuzzy, unidentifiable object on the spoon that Mark had found earlier. "Ugh, I think it's moving tossing." He tossed the spoon back into the sink and picked up a plastic bowl instead.

Mark felt a little better now that Roger seemed to be acting normal, but his worries returned quickly. Why had Roger been gone so much lately? The last time he'd disappeared this often was when he was using… _No_, Mark stopped himself immediately. _That's ridiculous. Roger's over the drugs… Right?_ He thought so, but he couldn't shake the fact that his behavior lately had been so similar to the days when he would disappear to get high. Mark didn't think that Roger was showing signs of using heroin, but honestly, he was never around enough to tell.

Something must have shown on his face because Roger kept glancing at him quietly. "Is everything okay, Mark? You don't normally get this uptight about things." He cocked his head to the side slightly, frowning. "Well, you do," he corrected, "but usually not about dishes." He looked up so that his eyes met Mark's, and Mark saw genuine concern there.

He wanted so badly to say that nothing was wrong and let his suspicions go, but his mind suddenly replayed a scene from a little over two years ago...

_Mark felt helpless. Absolutely worthless. He wished more than anything that he had the solution to this problem, but there was nothing he could do, and he and Collins both knew it._

_They were each seated on one end of their ratty couch, and between them was an incredibly sick Roger, burning with fever and shaking uncontrollably. His eyes were closed and he was leaning heavily against Mark's shoulder, too weak to sit up on his own. Collins wrapped him in a thin blanket and gently swept back the hair that was plastered to his too-hot forehead. All Mark could do was sit and hold him tightly._

"_Shit," Roger moaned, his head rolling with the pain. "Can't do this, can't do it," he mumbled, almost delirious._

"_You're fine, Roger," Mark whispered to him. "A little while longer and this'll be over." Roger was shaking so hard that Mark was struggling to hold him upright._

_Collins put a large comforting hand on Roger's shoulder, squeezing gently to let him know that he wasn't alone. "We're proud of you, Rog. This isn't easy, but you're going to get through it. And once you do, you'll be free from that shit. It won't control you anymore."_

_In a moment of clarity, Roger opened pain-filled eyes and met Collins' concerned gaze. "You s- sure?" He stammered through chattering teeth, and Mark could hear the uncertainty in his voice, the need for support and comfort._

_Collins looked a little surprised at this response; his eyes flicked up briefly to meet Mark's before moving back down to the musician. "Yeah. Once this is over, you can forget about the drugs."_

"_What if I c-can't give 'em up? What if it h-happens again? C-can't do this again." His voice was quiet and unsure, almost childlike. It reminded Mark of a young kid seeking his parents' reassurance that the monster in the closet wasn't real._

_Collins' face was nothing but sympathetic as he gently moved his hand to Roger's hair, stroking the shaggy dirty-blonde locks. "It won't happen again. This is it."_

_Mark's heart hurt to see his friend this way. This whole situation was so fucked up. This wasn't the Roger that Mark knew. His Roger was never meant to be the one who was unsure of himself. That was Mark's role, and he played it well. His Roger had always been the strong one, the confident one. It was too much for Mark to see Roger curled up against him, weak and moaning in pain._

_He was pulled out of his thoughts as he strained to hear Roger's raspy voice. "P-promise me," he sobbed quietly, teeth chattering harder than ever and his eyes closing tightly in pain. He leaned into Mark even more, burying himself in the comfort of his friend's arms. "P-promise you'll n-never let me t-touch another f-fucking needle in my l-life. P-please promise me."_

_Mark silently pulled Roger towards him, placing his chin gently on the rocker's head. With a quiet determination, he whispered, "I promise."_

"Seriously, Mark, if there's something going on, you can tell me about it," Roger said, concentrating on his chore.

Mark made his decision.

"I'm worried about you," he confessed, gaze locked on the side of Roger's face as he continued with the dishes. Roger's head snapped around in surprise, one eyebrow rising towards his hairline.

"You're worried about _me_? Why?"

Mark looked away, not able to meet his friend's eyes just in case what he was about to say was true. "I'm worried that you're back on drugs," he said quietly, staring at the floor.

Roger's eyes widened in surprise, hands freezing over a partially scrubbed plate. "What?"

Mark's voice rose unintentionally, his frustration with his friend's behavior sneaking through again. "You're never home anymore, Roger. You're always off who-knows-where, and you never tell anybody where you're going or when you'll be back. Not even Mimi! And when you are here, you're locked up in your room. It's just, it's a lot like when you were using heroin."

Roger stared at him, and the instant that Mark met his eyes, he knew he had been completely wrong. He saw only hurt in the green orbs staring back at him, and his shoulders sagged with relief.

"I'm not back on drugs. I told you a long time ago that I was done."

Mark knew that he had hurt Roger with his accusation, but he also knew that Roger probably didn't remember the promise that he'd pleaded Mark and Collins to make almost two and a half years ago.

"You believe me, right?" the man asked, unsure for a moment, and his voice had an almost begging tone.

Mark knew at once that he could trust Roger on this. His friend had given him no other reason to doubt his actions in the past year, and Mark was confident that Roger had finally kicked the drug habit for good. "Yeah," he replied with complete honesty. "I believe you."

Roger nodded, satisfied.

"But really," Mark said, raising an eyebrow. "Where have you been disappearing to? Everyone's been worried. Did you even come home last night?"

Roger let out a sigh, throwing down the sponge and turning to face Mark as he leaned backwards against the counter and crossed his arms. He looked as though he was arguing with himself over whether or not he should answer.

"Ok, look," he said, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, I've been rehearsing with the band almost non-stop. And when I'm not rehearsing with them, I'm practicing on my own or writing new songs." He smiled slightly at Mark's surprised look. "We signed up to audition for a show at that new club downtown, and if we get it, it'd be a huge gig for us. We'd get paid, and we'd get some exposure, you know?" Roger's eyes shone with excitement.

Mark's surprise turned to happiness as Roger explained the situation. "An audition? That's great, Rog!" He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. If Roger got it, this would be his first gig since before April died. The fact that he was ready to perform again furthered Mark's feelings that everything was finally back on track. "Why didn't you tell us? Everyone would be thrilled to hear this!"

Roger shook his head, his face falling slightly. "I know," he said, and Mark was confused to see that this didn't seem to please Roger as it should. "And that's why I didn't tell you guys. I don't want to disappoint everyone if we don't get it." He met Mark's eyes. "I mean, I know I haven't exactly chipped in my fair share of the rent and stuff, and you pay for everything, even my AZT, so I just want to get something going to bring in a little flow. I was only going to tell you if we got it." Roger looked down at his feet, perhaps slightly embarrassed at his admission. Mark thought that there was really no reason for him to feel so bad; they actually weren't doing too poorly financially now that Mark had a job, and Roger had taken to playing on the street sometimes to earn what he could. In fact, they could easily purchase some new dishes if they chose. They just didn't particularly care that their bowls were plastic.

"Who cares if you haven't chipped in for the rent—we don't pay it anyway," Mark replied with a grin, and Roger tipped his head, acknowledging the truth of that statement. He dug the soapy sponge out of the sink and finished scrubbing the plate he had abandoned. "And you wouldn't disappoint us. Seriously, you should tell everyone. When's the audition?"

"Saturday morning."

Mark checked his watch. _Tuesday, January 20, 1992, 4:30 p.m_., _Eastern Standard Time_, he mentally narrated. "So do you think the band is ready?" he asked.

Roger shrugged with an anxious look on his face. "I don't know. The guys seem to really like the new songs and stuff."

Mark nodded. It seemed that Roger's songwriting was finally coming along. It was like something inside him opened up after Mimi's near-death experience over a year ago, and since then Roger could often be seen picking up a pencil at random times and scribbling down a few words, just waiting to set them to music. So far, Mark had been unsuccessful at persuading his roommate to sing the finished products for him, and he was dying to hear them. In a way, Mark hoped Roger got the gig just so he could satisfy his own curiosity.

The ringing phone disturbed his thoughts, but neither Roger nor Mark made any attempt to answer it. There was always the possibility that the caller was one of their mothers, and that was a risk that neither of them were willing to take.

"Speeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaak," the machine droned.

"Mark, Roger, pick up, you lazy bums! I know you guys are there." Maureen's voice was easily recognizable, and Mark leaned over to snatch the phone off the receiver.

"Hey, Maureen, what's up?"

"Mark!" Her voice was loud in his ear, and he pulled the phone away about an inch. "Can Joanne and I stay with you guys for the rest of the week? They decided that the entire apartment complex needs to be fumigated, and then they're putting on some fresh paint. We aren't going to be let back in until Monday."

He nodded in understanding and shrugged. "Yeah, that should be fine."

"Great, thanks Mark!" she exclaimed. "Can we sleep in your bed? You're floor is so uncomfortable." It made him laugh quietly. Maureen and Joanne practically spent every weekend at the loft just hanging out, and Maureen asked this question every time.

He gave his customary response. "No, you can't."

"What about Roger's?"

"I don't think Roger would go for it either." Out of the corner of his eye, Mark could see his roommate, up to his elbows in soapy water, looking at him curiously.

"Fine," Maureen finally grumbled, letting out a frustrated huff. "We'll see you guys tomorrow."

"See you." Mark set the phone down, shaking his head.

"What did she want?" Roger asked.

"She and Joanne are going to stay here for the rest of the week. Their building is being fumigated and painted and shit and it won't be ready until Monday." He smirked, glancing at his roommate. "She wanted to know if she and Joanne could sleep in my bed so they didn't have to camp out on the floor. And when I said no, she wanted to know if they could sleep in _your_ bed."

Roger snorted. "Ewww, I don't want them getting kinky in my bed." He was twisting a dish towel in his hands, and he suddenly lunged, snapping it at Mark's thigh. Mark jumped backwards, barely managing to avoid the whipping and the angry welt that would come with it. After spending his entire life around the man, he was used to these impulsive tendencies. There was a time when he wouldn't have been able to avoid the towel, but he'd had a great deal of practice in the 20 years that he'd known the rocker. Roger looked disappointed at his failure, but he quickly recovered and went back to the sink, continuing their conversation without missing a beat. "Five days of non-stop Maureen is going to be tough."

He knew that Roger was joking and that he was really quite fond of Maureen, but their relationship was one based on these little quips. He loved to tease her, and she'd deal it right back at him. However, Roger was actually right. It required a heightened level of patience to put up with her for an extended period of time—something they'd both learned when she and Mark had been dating.

Mark smiled tauntingly. "Come on, Roger. Tough guy like you can't handle a girl for a few days?"

"I _can_ handle a girl. She doesn't qualify. She's more of an animal."

"It's not like you'll even be around to deal with her," Mark reminded. He picked up his scarf and wrapped it around his neck. "You'll be gone or in your room. I'm going to be the one who has to put up with the chatter."

Roger raised an eyebrow. "All I'm saying is that she'd better keep her hands off my guitar," he warned. "And leave me alone when I'm trying to practice. And I swear to God if I find her in my bed, someone's going to get hurt."

Mark laughed at his friend's complaints. "I'll make sure she knows not to bother you." He headed across the room, grabbing his camera off the table on the way. Sliding open the loft door he glanced back briefly, just long enough to see Roger, who had barely made a dent in his task, throw down the sponge with frustration, splashing soap and water everywhere. Mark grinned broadly as he slid the door shut behind him, clearly hearing his roommate's words.

"And tell her that while she's here, she can wash her own goddamn dishes!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

January 21, 1992

Mark was in a good mood on Wednesday as he hopped onto his bike to return to the loft. He'd gotten off early from work at the little coffee shop a few blocks down the road, and he truly was looking forward to having Maureen and Joanne stay with them that weekend. He knew that Collins would come by as well, and since Mimi practically lived with them anyway (at least, she did when Roger was around), they'd have the whole gang together. As painful as it was, he knew that a day would come when he would no longer be able to spend time with all of them. With every heartbeat, an invisible clock was slowly ticking away for Collins, Mimi, and Roger, and it made Mark physically sick to dwell on those thoughts too long. He quickly shook himself of the depression, hunching a little further down over his handlebars in an attempt to avoid the freezing mid-January air.

He smoothly rolled up to the rickety stairs outside their place, his cheeks red and stinging from the cruel bite of winter, and hefted his bike over his shoulder to ascend the steps. Trying the door to the loft, he found that it was locked. _Roger must be out rehearsing again._He dug through his pockets to find the key, which took him far too long due to his multiple layers of clothing, and finally let himself in.

As he expected, his roommate was nowhere to be found, but Mark was no longer worried. He parked his bike against the wall and gently set his camera on the cold metal table in the middle of the loft before shedding his outer jacket, leaving himself bundled in a long sleeved shirt and a sweater.

It wasn't long before he heard a loud knock on the door. Before he could even think about answering it, it slid open, revealing Maureen wearing a massive grin on her face.

"Hey, Markie!" she practically squealed, bouncing into the loft and throwing her arms around his neck.

"Whoa, hi, Maureen." He found it a little bit funny that she greeted him and the others like this. They saw each other two to three times a week on average, and yet she always acted like she hadn't seen them in months. But Mark loved it. It was personality traits like that that had attracted him to her in the first place. He wrapped his arms around her waist, returning the hug. He remembered a time when he would have killed to be allowed to hug her like this forever, but he realized that it was slowly becoming less and less of a desire. He still cared for her deeply and his chest still ached to think of her, but he knew that he'd been caught up on Maureen for so long that he'd robbed himself of the opportunity to branch out. He was finally beginning to feel that maybe it was time.

She released his neck and stepped back as Joanne shuffled through the door, carrying three suitcases and dropping them noisily on the floor. She glared at Maureen, obviously more than a little annoyed.

"Thanks for the help carrying _your_ stuff, Maureen," Joanne grumbled, but Mark could tell that she wasn't really that angry.

"Hey, Jo," he said, walking over to give her a hug as well.

"Hi, Mark!" She smiled at him, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and squeezing. _It's funny_, Mark thought._There was a time when I hated this girl for stealing Maureen from me. Now I can't imagine life without her around._

Stepping back from Joanne, Mark leaned down to pick up the suitcases that had been dropped on the hardwood floor, balking at how much effort it took to actually lift them. "God, Maureen, how long are you staying? It feels like you brought your entire wardrobe. Plus your dresser." He hefted her suitcases up onto his shoulders while Joanne grabbed the one remaining and began walking towards his room to stash them away.

He was returning to the living room when he saw Maureen push Roger's bedroom door open slightly, peeking her head in hopefully. Her face fell, and she gave Joanne a look that Mark couldn't read.

"Roger's not here?" She tried to ask casually, but Mark knew that she was a little upset. She and Joanne hadn't seen the man in weeks due to his extended absences, and Mark knew that they were worried about him. He had been feeling the same way until yesterday.

"No, he should be back in a little bit though."

Maureen nodded, her brow furrowed and her eyes dark. "Mark, I think we need to talk to him," she said with a frown. "Something's going on, and I don't think it's good. I know you're worried, too."

Joanne nodded, her lips pursed and her forehead creased in thought. She added, "It might be nothing," she acknowledged, always the voice of reason, "but maybe we should ask him about it."

Mark looked between the girls. He wanted so badly to tell them of Roger's audition, but he knew that it wasn't his place. Still, he couldn't allow them to worry over their friend when there was nothing to be concerned about. "Roger's fine," he said, hoping to ease their fears. They gave him doubtful looks, obviously thinking that he was in denial about his best friend's behavior. "Seriously, he's fine," he asserted. "I talked to him yesterday, and he told me what's been going on. It's nothing to worry about."

When he didn't offer up any more information, Maureen and Joanne gave him matching expectant looks. "Well?" Maureen asked impatiently, throwing her hands up. "Are you going to tell us or keep us in suspense?"

Mark shrugged in dismissal. "If Roger wants you to know, he'll tell you himself."

Maureen pouted. "Not fair. Why did he tell you and not the rest of us?" Her eyes squinted in suspicion. "Did you offer him sexual favors in exchange for information?"

Mark snorted loudly, rolling his eyes, and he sarcastically answered, "You got me, Maureen, that's exactly what I did. Because his girlfriend isn't enough to satisfy him."

Maureen nodded her head. "I thought so," she said in mock seriousness.

At that moment, the subject of their discussion slid the door open, his guitar hanging off of his shoulder. He looked extremely tired standing there in the doorway, but his eyes brightened when he saw the girls.

Maureen smiled, hands on her hips. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," she said. She was trying to look nonchalant about seeing Roger after a few weeks now, but she couldn't contain herself any longer. She dropped her arms and bounded across the loft, throwing herself into Roger's embrace. Joanne joined them as well, and they hugged for a few seconds before breaking apart. Suddenly, Maureen sent a clenched fist flying into Roger's shoulder.

"Ouch, what was that for?" he asked, rubbing his arm.

"You have some explaining to do! What the hell have you been up to for the past three weeks? And why have you only told Mark?" She gestured at Mark wildly with one hand, and there was a hint of jealousy in her voice. "Do you have any idea how worried we've been?" She pushed Roger's chest a little too hard to be considered playful, and he stumbled backwards a step, a guilty look on his face.

"I didn't mean to worry you, Maureen. Or you, Jo," he tilted his chin towards Joanne standing a few feet away. She nodded, her face set in a worried frown. "I've just been really busy with the band lately." He looked at the ground as he said this, apparently trying to avoid telling the whole story as he had to Mark.

However, Maureen wasn't so easily satisfied. "Why have you been so busy?" She tried to catch Roger's eye, but he was expertly avoiding her gaze. "C'mon, Roger, you never spent this much time with your band before. What's changed?" She stared at him as he lifted his guitar case off of his shoulder. He finally granted her eye contact, though somewhat reluctantly.

"We're auditioning for a gig."

"You're_WHAT_?" It was practically a screech, and Mark's hands flew up to cover his ears in an effort to protect them from the abuse. He saw Roger cringe and duck his head, turning away from the sound.

Maureen, however, appeared not to care that she had shattered multiple eardrums. She just gaped at Roger, her mouth wide open. Joanne was grinning, apparently not as stricken by the news as her lover.

Roger pushed past Maureen, heading away from the door and towards his room, carrying his guitar. "Why is everyone so surprised when I say that?" he grumbled, and Mark suspected that he was genuinely frustrated with the fact that he had to explain himself again.

Maureen recovered enough to formulate a response. Mark heard her jaw snap closed with an audible click, though her eyebrows remained raised in shock. "Sorry, Roger, it's just… You haven't performed since before… since before April died." She finished nervously, which was a strange emotion to see from Maureen. She was generally incredibly confident and comfortable, often saying things that Mark would never dream of. But even Maureen knew that it was always a risk bringing up April's death. That had been a dark time for Roger, and everyone was a bit wary of sending him back to that place.

Roger stopped in the entry to his room and turned to face them. "I know," he replied solemnly. "And there's a good chance we won't get it, so don't get your hopes up." He disappeared into his room, and Mark heard shuffling coming from within. He stole a glance at Maureen. She still looked surprised, but her face was slowly transforming into a smile. She met Mark's eyes, relief spreading through her own.

Roger reappeared at his door, free of his guitar. "Sorry to run out of here, but I'm going down to Mimi's for a bit. I'll see you guys later." He headed towards the exit, but he was stopped by Maureen's strong grip on his wrist as she grabbed him and pulled him into another tight embrace; her relief at knowing that he was okay was manifesting itself as affection.

"You guys are going to rock this audition, Rog. I know it." She held him close, and Mark could see that she was relishing the opportunity to hug him after being apart for so long. She knew as well as Mark did that their time was limited, and any chance they got to enjoy Roger's presence was not taken for granted.

Roger relaxed into her arms, patting her back gently. "Thanks, Mo," he said sincerely, though Mark could tell that he wasn't completely convinced. Roger pulled away and, with a small wave, headed out the door.

* * *

Roger had come and gone again, only hanging in the loft long enough to scarf down a bowl of cereal before taking off for rehearsal. Mark could tell that Roger was more anxious about the audition than he was letting on. He was constantly distracted, and every time Mark looked at him, he was struck by how tired he appeared. He had obviously been sacrificing sleep for rehearsal or writing.

Mark, Maureen, Joanne, and Mimi were scattered around the loft, relaxing and enjoying each other's company, when the phone rang.

"Speeeeeaaaaaaakkkk."

"Hey, Mark, Roger, one of you needs to get off your ass and answer the phone! It's me!"

Mark leaped out of his chair and across the loft towards the machine, quickly grabbing the phone and pressing it against his ear.

"Collins! What's going on, man?" He was always happy to hear from his friend.

"Hey, Mark. I'm just calling to let you guys know that I'll be coming around this weekend. Hell, if you clear me a spot to crash on the couch, I may even have a bottle of Stoli with your name on it."

Mark smiled. The man came over as often as he could while teaching classes at the university, and he was usually able to make it on the weekends and once during the week, if he got lucky. After Angel's death, Mark suspected that Collins was lonelier than he was letting on, and being around his friends was the only way to ease that feeling. Mark loved having the guy around. It reminded him of when he first moved to New York City, and before they'd met Benny—him, Roger, and Collins, struggling but surviving in a cold, empty loft. That was before drugs and disease controlled Roger's life, and before Angel's loss had affected all of them.

"You're on, Collins. But you may have to fight with Maureen over the couch. She and Joanne are here for the rest of the week."

Collins snorted on the other end of the line. "Ha, no problem, she's half my size."

"Yeah, but she's scrappy," Mark warned. He glanced at Maureen, who was nodding in approval.

Collins made a noise of something like agreement. "Well, I'll probably head over there Friday night." He suddenly switched topics altogether, catching Mark off guard. "Hey, is Rog there? I was hoping to talk to him. It's been awhile."

"No, he's rehearsing."

"Ah, I see," Collins said, and Mark hated hearing the disappointment in his voice. It wasn't natural.

"He'll be around this weekend, though. Well, not Saturday morning, but after that he should be."

Collins sighed. "I hope so, but he seems to disappear whenever he feels like it nowadays."

Mark considered moving away from the topic, but he wanted to cheer Collins up as well as defend Roger's recent behavior. He didn't think Roger would mind if he explained things to Collins. They were extremely close, and Mark figured that since Roger had told Maureen, Joanne, and also Mimi when he went to visit her earlier, Collins was next on his list.

Mark dove in. "I know, but his band has an audition on Saturday, and they've been working hard. He hasn't said anything, but I can tell he's pretty stressed about it." Mark shook his head. "I think once the audition is over, he'll lighten up and lay off the rehearsal a little bit. Then he'll be around more often."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Mark was about ready to ask if Collins was still there, but then he heard the man's deep, booming laughter echoing through the phone.

Mark's eyebrow rose in confusion. "What's so funny?" he asked.

The professor took a moment to compose himself. "It's just, I've been worried sick about the kid for the past three weeks. I mean, shit, Mark, I thought he was back on drugs! And you're telling me that he's been off playing rock star?" He chuckled. "I'm just happy that that's all it is."

Mark nodded in agreement before remembering that Collins couldn't see him. "I know. Me too," he agreed.

Again, there was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Collins spoke quietly. "I hope he gets it, Mark. That would be damn good for him."

"I know. Me too."

Collins huffed out another sigh. "Alright, well I'll see you guys tomorrow then. Tell the girls I said hello."

"Will do," Mark replied. "Night, Collins."

"G'night."

Mark placed the phone back down and headed towards his friends, collapsing onto the couch next to Mimi. He was looking forward to the weekend and, hopefully after Roger's audition, having all his friends spend time together again. All that was left to do was ride out the rest of the week and cross his fingers for some good karma to head Roger's way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

January 24, 1992

It was a lazy Saturday morning in the loft. Mark woke up around ten o'clock and, groggily rubbing his eyes, made his way towards the kitchen. He was in serious need of some coffee. He stumbled over something bulky and soft, and almost jumped out of his skin when it jerked upwards with a start.

"Ah, Collins! Sorry, I forgot you were down there," he said, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. The big man had gotten there late, and they'd stayed up talking for a while before finally calling it a night.

Collins groaned, lying down but not attempting to fall back asleep. "Shit, you need to work on your wake up calls," he mumbled, rubbing his side where Mark's foot had jabbed him in the ribs.

Mark ignored him, resuming his quest for caffeine. There was the sound of muffled speaking, and a glance towards the couch revealed that Maureen and Joanne were also waking up as well. Maureen had, as Mark predicted, beat Collins out for the couch in an epic game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and she and Joanne had somehow squeezed themselves onto the torn piece of furniture together. Collins ended up planting himself on the floor under a thin blanket in a futile effort to stay warm. Mark had considered offering him Roger's bed since chances were that his roommate wouldn't come home, but he had wanted to leave it open in case Roger did happen to return.

Mark seized a few mugs from the cluster of dishes on the counter that Roger had washed and dried but refused to put away. He noticed that the coffee pot was a little less than full, meaning the musician had at least stopped by at some point while the rest of them were asleep.

Passing the mugs around the loft, Mark couldn't help but think about his friend. Roger's audition was meant to be at 10:30. That was in a little over 20 minutes. He mentally tried to send good vibes in Roger's direction, fully aware that the man was more than a little nervous. Sighing, he swiped an old newspaper off the table, flipping to the crossword puzzle and settling in to wait.

* * *

When the door squeaked open just before noon, multiple heads turned to survey the intruder. Roger, just entering the loft, didn't even look up as he shuffled his way in. He slid the door shut behind him before slinging his guitar off of his shoulder and gently placing it upright against the wall.

There was a stretch of complete silence while they waited for Roger to give some indication of how the audition went. But Roger, who was unwinding the green scarf from his neck, was either completely oblivious to the suspense in the room, or he was not willing to share the information.

Mark was too curious. "How did it go?" he dared to ask quietly, trying to make eye contact with his friend, but Roger still hadn't actually looked at him. Instead, he was slowly pulling off his leather jacket and throwing it down next to his guitar. Roger didn't answer, and Mark couldn't tell if he hadn't heard the question or if he was purposely avoiding it. Deciding that it was better to console his friend now if things hadn't gone well, he said, "Did you hear me? Roger?"

"Hmmm?" Roger perked up, as if realizing that someone was actually talking to him, and looked around the room until his gaze finally settled on Mark.

As he locked eyes with his friend, Mark thought it was no wonder that Roger seemed to be a little out of it. He looked absolutely horrible. His face was pale with dark rings under his eyes that screamed of exhaustion, and he swayed slightly where he stood. Mark knew that the musician had been stressed out over the audition, but it looked as though he hadn't slept in a week. "We just wanted to know how it went," Mark repeated cautiously.

Roger gave a small smile, though it did little to relieve his face of the exhaustion, and his eyes glinted slightly. "We got it," he said simply.

The loft broke out into excited cheers at the good news. Maureen and Joanne threw their arms up in celebration, wide smiles stretching across their faces. They sprang up to wrap Roger in a hug, laughing and congratulating him.

"Roger, that's great, man! Congratulations!" Collins exclaimed, and Mark felt a huge grin split his own face. He was on his feet and heading towards Roger before he could remember standing up. Roger had worked so hard to get back into performing his music, and this was huge for him. The fact that his first attempt at a gig was a success was a hell of a confidence booster.

Roger nodded, still smiling as he pulled away from the girls. He opened his arms to allow Mark to lean in and hug him, slapping him on the back and stepping away. "Yeah, they said they loved our music, and they gave us the gig right there on the spot. They want us to play a show next Friday night."

Collins jumped up from his spot at the table and wrapped his friend in a huge hug. He ruffled the rocker's short blonde hair and stepped back slightly, keeping his hand on the back of Roger's neck as he turned to the others. "I can picture it now! Ladies and gentleman," he said, lowering his voice and speaking into a non-existent microphone, eyes wide with excitement, "may I present to you the one, the only, the God-Of-All-Things-Rock-And-Roll, Roooooger Daaaaaavis!" He paused. "And his band," he added as an afterthought, before he began slowly chanting, "Ro-ger, Ro-ger, Ro-ger," which Maureen and Joanne quickly joined.

Mark quickly grabbed his camera off the table and turned it on, recording as Collins continued his chant. Roger finally had enough of the attention and squirmed away from Collins before turning and gently throwing a weak punch at his friend's shoulder, trying to shut him up. Collins quieted down, but he was still smiling happily. Roger started slowly shuffling to the kitchen, but Collins reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him backwards towards his chest. He put a hand on each of Roger's shoulders and turned him towards the couch, steering him there and sitting him down.

"You look like you're going to fall over, man. Lie down and relax. What do you need?" he asked quietly, nudging Roger's legs up onto the couch to stretch out. Collins could tease with the best of them, but it was moments like this when Mark saw just how big the man's heart was- and how that entire heart was devoted to caring for his friends.

Roger leaned his head back against the armrest and sighed. "Just some water," he said quietly. "Thanks," he said as Collins gave him a light pat on the cheek and turned towards the kitchen. Mark slid down to the floor and leaned his back against the couch, his head directly in front of Roger's. Roger peeked over his shoulder to watch him fiddle with his camera before losing interest and staring at the ceiling instead, his eyelids drooping.

"How long has it been since you've slept for a whole night, Rog? You look worse than Mark does after a night of drinking," Maureen said, pulling a raggedy blanket (the same one that Collins had huddled underneath the night before) off the nearest chair and draping it over Roger's lanky form. She stuck her tongue out at Mark as he scowled and flipped her off.

"Awww, shit, I really look that bad? That's pretty harsh." He grunted as Mark, without even a glance, threw his hand up and over his shoulder and whacked Roger in the gut. "Hey!" he protested weakly, and then returned to Maureen's question. "Ummmm, I dunno, it's been awhile. We just wanted to practice as much as possible." He was obviously having trouble keeping his eyes open. Collins returned with a glass of water and handed it to Roger before propping himself on the armrest by Roger's feet. "Thanks," he said sincerely, taking a sip. "What are you guys doing?"

"Well, for the last hour I've been beating Collins and Pookie at poker, and Mark's been working on his film or something," Maureen answered.

"Hey, I just won the last two rounds!" Joanne defended herself, not willing to let Maureen take all the credit.

"Yeah, but you cheated!" Maureen shot back.

"Did not!"

"Did to!"

"Did not!"

"Did to! I saw you looking at my cards!"

"I was not! And if I was, it's because you left them hanging out in the open for everyone to see!"

"Guys!" Mark cut in. "I don't think Roger really cares," he said, pointing behind him with a smile on his face. Roger was already asleep, his features relaxed and his chest rising and falling slowly. Mark could hear his friend steadily exhaling next to his ear. He shook his head. Roger had always been able to conk out anytime and anywhere, and it was a talent that Mark envied. He usually had trouble sleeping anywhere but his own bed.

Collins patted Roger's leg gently before joining Mark on the floor, apparently not ready to re-join his poker game with the girls. "So how's the film coming?" he asked, speaking softly.

"Slowly," Mark said, grimacing. "And by that, I mean it's at a complete standstill. I don't know, Collins. I just can't really get my ideas straight with this one, you know? I have no clue what I'm trying to focus on. I always think I've got a plan, but then I get a really great idea of how to film something completely unrelated and I start changing everything." Mark shook his head with frustration. "I want to capture people in their everyday routine, but I don't know what kind of people, I guess." He set his camera in his lap, a feeling of defeat washing over him.

Collins nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I can't tell you what to film, Mark, and trust me, I don't think you'd want me to. But I can tell you that people will feel a stronger connection to your work if it's something that you're emotionally invested in." He crossed his arms, leaning back further into the couch. "When I grade papers from my students, the great ones are always about subjects that the student has had an experience with. Something that's been a part of their life and made an impact." Collins stared at the side of Mark's face until Mark turned to meet his eyes.

"So, you're saying you think I should film my own life and make it into a movie?" Mark asked, raising an eyebrow.

Collins shrugged. "It's an option. But you film almost everything that goes on in your life already. What's so wrong with cutting that together and seeing what you get?"

"I feel like I already did that with my last movie," he revealed.

"Yeah, and your last movie was amazing. Maybe take a different angle on it this time."

_He's right, _Mark thought. He did film most of the events that happened in his life. Granted, most of his life revolved around the lives of his friends as well. People may have some interest in a group of starving artists, right? Their lives were somewhat entertaining. Right? Looking at his friends around the loft, he wasn't so sure. It was debatable whether a rousing game of cards and his roommate sleeping would hold an audience's attention, but it was sure as hell worth a shot. He picked up his camera and aimed it at Collins kind face. "Smile."

* * *

The door to the loft didn't open again until early that evening, when Mimi, just returning from work, entered loudly, smiling in greeting.

"Hey, guys!" She said, breaking the silence that had settled over the group in the past few hours.

Maureen, Joanne, and Collins happily waved to her from their positions on the floor across from Mark. They'd put the cards away at some point in the afternoon and skimmed through every magazine in the loft. They were now just beginning to rifle through a box of photos that they had recently, in a moment of boredom, found packed away in Mark's closet. He hadn't touched some of the stuff in that box since he moved out of his parents' house, and he wasn't sure exactly which pictures it contained. Though Mark was a little wary of exposing the awkwardness that was his childhood to his friends (God knows he got enough teasing from Roger, who'd been there to witness it), he'd reluctantly agreed to let them look.

"Hey, Meems," Mark whispered, looking up from his camera and smiling in return. He put a finger over his lips and pointed directly behind him at Roger, who was still sleeping on the couch. He hadn't woken once since he'd fallen asleep, and no one had any desire to bother him. There'd been an unspoken agreement between the friends to be quiet and let him rest. The loft had settled into a comfortable silence soon after he had come home and remained that way for hours, the only sound being Roger's deep and peaceful breathing.

Mark could almost see Mimi's heart swell as her eyes locked on Roger. "How did the audition go?" she asked quietly, and Mark could tell she was nervous to hear the answer. The smile remained on her face, but she'd tensed up.

Mark gave her a thumbs-up, grinning. "They got it. He's playing a show next Friday."

Her smile grew even larger, if that was possible, and her muscles relaxed. "When did he get home?"

"A little after noon. He's been out since then."

She tiptoed her way across the loft towards the couch, throwing her coat down on top of Roger's jacket. Mark scooted across the floor towards Maureen to allow Mimi to approach her boyfriend. She knelt down and kissed his forehead softly. Mark discreetly lifted his camera and began filming the two.

Mimi then stood and gently lifted Roger's head and shoulders off of the couch before smoothly sliding in underneath him so that his head was in her lap. Roger huffed out a sigh and stirred slightly, almost as if in annoyance at being moved, but he remained asleep. Mimi laughed softly, rolling her eyes at the camera like she'd known Mark was filming all along. She placed one hand lightly on Roger's chest, the other lovingly stroking his hair.

The loft became quiet again. At least, it was quiet for about fifteen seconds, until there was a sudden burst of laughter from the three looking through Mark's photos. They quickly stifled their giggles, glancing at Mark and failing to look innocent.

Mark felt his face flushing; he dreaded to see whatever picture they'd found. He put his camera down on the floor next to him and reached over to yank the photo out of Maureen's hand.

"Oh, God…" He dropped his face into his palms. "This thing should have been burned years ago."

"Oh, come on, Mark, you can't get rid of that!" Maureen grabbed for the photo, but Mark held it out of her reach.

"I can, and I will. Right now, in fact."

"Mark, no, you can't get rid of memories like this! Besides, I think that's the hottest you've ever looked!" She said cheekily.

"You know, Mark, I think I agree with Maureen! I'd totally become straight for you if you looked like this as a woman," Collins joked, snatching the offending photo out of Mark's grasp. "You pull off the slutty look quite well, actually… Holy shit, are you wearing a thong?"

Mark groaned.

Mimi's eyes widened from her place on the couch. He knew her curiosity was killing her, but she seemed too comfortable to get up.

Joanne couldn't contain herself any longer. She let her laughter escape in an undignified snort. "Seriously, Mark, why did you do this? And more importantly, why the hell did you let someone take a picture?"

"Because of that one, over there!" He said angrily, pointing at the couch.

"Me?" Mimi squeaked out in surprise.

"No, not you. Him." He glared at Roger's sleeping form. "It was during a very drunken game of truth or dare in our senior year of high school. My family was out of town and they felt bad about leaving me alone at the house, so they told me to have Roger stay over for the weekend to keep me company." Mark scoffed. "I don't know what they were thinking. We had some guys over to hang out with us, and those guys brought lots of alcohol, and apparently Roger dared me to use my sister's clothes to dress like a hooker." He shook his head. "I don't actually remember doing it, but the stories I've heard are bad enough."

And it was obvious that Mark had taken the dare seriously. He'd gone through his sister's closet, choosing a skimpy sequined tank-top that failed to cover his stomach and a black mini-skirt that barely made it past his butt. His thighs were skinny and sickeningly pale, but his calves were covered in a pair of black high-heeled boots, which added about six inches to his height. He'd stolen a hot pink bra from Cindy's dresser and stuffed it with toilet paper, and the neck of the tank hung low enough to see the bra underneath. He had been mortified to realize that he was indeed wearing the matching underwear as well, which was just barely visible over the waistband of the skirt. His look was completed with bright pink lipstick, black mascara, and blue eye shadow, which, he noted disturbingly, actually brought out his eyes quite well.

"Roger told me to pose and took the picture. I guess I was too far gone to realize that I shouldn't have let him," Mark revealed. "The worst part was that he didn't even show it to me the next day. I had no idea that I'd done that until months later when I found the picture in his room." As much as he didn't want to, Mark couldn't help but laugh at the whole thing. He wondered what other memories he'd packed away into these boxes.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a low growl. Collins looked up guiltily, grabbing his stomach. "Is it dinner time yet?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty hungry, too," Maureen chimed in. "And since I really don't want to eat stale cereal and crackers for dinner, who's up for going to the Life?"

Joanne nodded. "Sure."

"Sounds good to me," Collins responded. "I've got some extra cash, courtesy of A-N-G-E-L," he smiled. "So this time, I guess it's my treat. Mark, Meems, you guys want to go?" Maureen and Joanne were already getting ready to leave, pulling on their coats.

Mark nodded, seeing Mimi do the same.

"Should we wake the God-Of-All-Things-Rock-And-Roll?" Collins asked, glancing at Roger with amusement.

"Probably," Mark answered, looking at Roger's sleeping form. He hated to wake him when he was obviously exhausted, but it was time for him to rejoin the land of the living long enough for some nourishment. "He should eat something. Besides, it's almost time for his AZT."

Mimi agreed. She removed her hand from Roger's hair, putting it on his cheek and patting gently. "Roger," she said. "Wake up, Baby." She shook his shoulder, and he stirred. "Roger, come on, wake up." She shook him again, and finally his eyes opened blearily. "Good morning," she said jokingly, smiling down at him.

He was obviously still drowsy, as it took him a moment to register where he was. "Hey, Meems," he said, his voice rough with sleep.

"It's after 6:00. We're going to the Life to get some dinner. You should come and eat something," Mimi encouraged.

Roger rolled his head sideways on her lap, and Mark saw the surprise on his face when he realized that all of his friends were ready to go and staring at him. He pulled himself up, swinging his legs onto the floor and stretching his muscles.

"Is it really 6:00?" he asked. "Shit, sorry..."

Mark shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Here," he tossed Roger his jacket. "Let's go eat. We're starving."

Roger stood up, pulling the black leather over his sweater. As the group started heading out the loft, he reached out and grabbed Mimi by the hand, pulling her into his arms and kissing her lightly. He leaned back and smiled, and without a word, interlocked their fingers before walking out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

******Thanks to those of you who are reading this story! Here's the newest part. These next few chapters are pretty flashback heavy, but it's all meant to establish the Mark and Roger friendship, so hopefully you'll enjoy them!**  


**Chapter 4**

January 24, 1992

They returned to the loft around 7:30, well-fed and in good spirits. A fair amount of alcohol had been consumed during dinner in celebration of Roger's gig, and though nobody was truly drunk, the alcohol served to make everyone a little bit goofy. Collins was currently belching the alphabet backwards, which should have been disturbing, but was proving to be hilarious instead.

"So what do you guys want to do tonight?" Mimi asked. "Roger's finally here to grace us with his presence," she said sarcastically, "so we should do something fun."

"Well," Maureen responded slyly, glancing at Mark. "We just barely started going through Mark's old photos before we left for dinner, and I would looooooove to see the rest of them."

Mimi nodded her head vigorously at Maureen's suggestion, her eyes brightening, and Collins guffawed loudly, pointing at Maureen with both hands and shouting "Yes!"

Mark shot them all a glare. "I'm not going to let you guys look at them if you're going to make fun of every picture!"

Maureen raised her eyebrows and put a hand to her heart in mock hurt, her face the picture of innocence. "Me? Make fun? Never!"

Joanne seemed to be having an internal struggle, until she finally said, "Actually, I think that would be really fun to look through them. You can tell us about your childhood, Mark!" She looked at him enthusiastically. He knew that she was hoping to find another photo like the one they'd laughed about earlier, and he couldn't blame her. It really would have been hilarious if it hadn't of been him.

Mark noticed that Roger was the only one who hadn't eagerly supported the idea, and he suspected that Roger realized he would be in a great deal of those photos as well. They'd spent their entire childhood in the presence of one another, and that meant that many of the photos were taken when he was there. He was obviously not entirely comfortable with bearing his young self to the world either.

Mark locked gazes with his best friend, and Roger's eyes sparkled. The musician chuckled quietly, shrugging his shoulders with a tilt of his head. _Why not?_ He seemed to say. Mark smiled a bit.

"Okay," he agreed with resignation. "You guys grab the box and I'll see if I can find us some drinks. I have a feeling I'm going to need more alcohol."

* * *

They created a lopsided circle on the floor, sitting close enough to each other that their knees almost touched. Mark and Roger sat side-by-side leaning against the couch. Mimi sat on Roger's left and Maureen on Mark's right, with Collins and Joanne across from them. Maureen was hoarding the large cardboard box at her side, almost bouncing with excitement and waiting for everyone to settle in so that she could dig out pictures.

Mark had passed out a beer to each of his friends, and he was fully prepared to keep them coming. He was not above resorting to getting them drunk if things got ugly and he needed them to forget everything they'd seen. Satisfied that everyone was happy, he finally said, "Okay, Maureen, go ahead."

Her eyes lit up as she reached into the box and pulled out a handful of photos, tapping the edges on her leg to straighten them into a neat stack. She focused on the first picture, and her mouth opened as she let out an _Awwwwww_! "Mark, I don't know what you were so worried about! Look at you, you were adorable!"

She tilted the photo towards him so that he could see it, and he couldn't help but smile. He hadn't seen this picture in forever. "That was my kindergarten school picture," he said, taking it from her and passing it to Roger.

Roger laughed, throwing his head back. "Oh my God," he said. "I can't believe I've known you since you were this little kid. Your hair hasn't changed at all!"

Mark nodded, smiling. He really had been a pretty cute kid, he realized. His face was rounder than it was now, though not overly so, and his eyes were bright blue behind his glasses. He'd been giving a white-toothed grin in the photo, though one of his bottom teeth was missing. And Roger was right. His hair was the same strawberry-blonde, flipped up in the front exactly as he wore it now.

"Damn, Mark," Collins said, taking the picture from Roger. "You were pretty cute! What happened?" he joked. Mark flipped him off in good humor. He'd been waiting for a remark like that.

Maureen turned her attention back to the next picture in her hand. Her grin grew wider. "Oh my God, is this you and Roger?"

Mark looked at the picture in her hand and nodded, laughing. "Yeah. We must have been about six," he said.

"Roger, look at you!" Maureen cooed, just as she'd done over Mark. "You were so cute!"

Mark felt Roger lean into him to try to get a look at the picture, so he took it from Maureen and handed it off to his friend. Roger held it in both hands, studying it closely, and shook his head with a smile. Mark knew exactly what he was feeling. It was so strange that they were able to relive these memories now, 20 years after they'd happened, but Mark loved it. He wouldn't trade these photos for anything.

The picture had been taken in Mark's backyard, and judging from the leaves on the ground, it was sometime in the fall. In each of their hands there was a plastic sword, which they were holding at the ready as they smiled into the camera. Mark looked at the young Roger in the photo. Even back then, Roger had been the type that women swooned over, often saying that he'd grow up to be a 'heartbreaker'. He had the classic high cheekbones, and his eyes were a sparkling green behind dark lashes. His short hair wasn't the bleached-blonde that it was now, but the natural blonde of a young child whose color hadn't fully developed yet. He smiled at the camera mischievously, almost as if he had a secret that he wasn't sharing.

Mimi looked at the photo in Roger's hands and giggled. "Look at your dimples, Rog!" She reached up and pinched his cheek, and he scrunched his nose and jerked away. "You guys both look so cute! What were you doing anyway?"

"I think we were on a quest or something," Mark answered, snickering.

"A quest for what?"

Roger shrugged. "I don't know, but I'm sure it was an epic one," he said, smiling and handing the picture across the circle to Collins and Joanne, who laughed at the young boys.

Joanne looked up suddenly, addressing Mark and Roger. "I know you guys became friends when you were young, but how did you actually meet?" she wondered, and the others raised their eyebrows curiously.

"Yeah, I don't think you've ever told us," Maureen added.

Mark and Roger looked at each other, their eyes widening, and they both broke out into sudden laughter. It was a long time ago and they'd been incredibly young, but they remembered their first meeting all too well. It was hard to forget. "I almost broke Mark's nose," Roger said through his laughter, though there was a measure of guilt in his voice.

"Roger almost knocked himself out," Mark added, barely able to contain his giggles. He finally got enough control of himself to explain. "It really wasn't that funny when it happened, but looking back now it's hilarious. It was the first day of kindergarten…"

_A five-year-old Mark was sitting at his desk, one in a table group of four, as the teacher introduced herself._

"_Hello, class!" She welcomed them enthusiastically, obviously practiced in dealing with young, nervous kids. "Welcome to your first day of kindergarten! My name is Mrs. Grant. Now, we are going to start our first day with a fun little art project to help us get to know each other. How does that sound?"_

_Mark nodded his head slowly, echoing the rest of the class with a nervous, "Good."_

"_Okay!" Mrs. Grant said. "Now, I'm going to give each table group a couple bowls of paint. Listen carefully, and we are going to practice following instructions. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO TOUCH THE PAINT. I want you to pick your favorite color, WITHOUT TOUCHING. Then I'm going to come around to each of you and help you paint your name onto a fun little name tag." Mark was concerned as the teacher placed paint on each table and headed over to the group on the far side of the room. His parents had helped him write his name before, but he couldn't really remember how. Would she help him? Did everyone else already know how? Was he way behind? He was hitting his pencil nervously against the edge of his desk, hoping that he wasn't going to seem stupid on his first day of school._

_He turned around in his chair to watch the teacher, suddenly noticing the table group directly behind him. Two boys, one blonde and the other a red-head, were rebelliously sliding a bowl of paint to each other back and forth across their desks, giggling as they did so. Mark smiled. That looked like fun, but he knew that they weren't supposed to touch the bowls of paint._

_He had moved to tapping his pencil against his leg rather than his desk, but his distraction caused it to suddenly flip out of his hand and roll underneath the chair of the blonde boy with his back to Mark. Mark wanted to ask the boy to hand it to him, but he didn't want to interrupt his game with the paint, so he decided he'd get it himself._

_Mark stood up shyly, pushing his chair in and taking a couple steps towards his pencil. What followed was a series of unfortunate events for both boys involved._

_Just as Mark was bending down to get onto his hands and knees, the red-head pushed the bowl of paint too hard, sending it skidding across the table and flying off the edge, directly into the lap of the blonde, whom Mark happened to be standing behind. In an effort to avoid the mess, the blonde boy leaped backward in his chair, the back of his head connecting solidly with Mark's nose. Mark fell heavily sideways onto the ground, his glasses flying and his hands clutching at his face, while the other boy's chair continued tipping backwards with him still in it. He hit the floor, his head bouncing off the ground with a loud _thunk!

_The commotion caused the entire class to turn, and Mrs. Grant was there in a matter of seconds. A horrified look crossed her face when she saw the two boys on the ground, one with blood streaming from his nose and the other, covered in green paint, spilling sideways out of his toppled chair and holding the back of his head._

_Mark felt hands gently help him sit up and he met the kind brown eyes of his teacher, which were dark with worry as she eyed the blood flowing freely. "Here, Sweetie," she said, "let me help you." She quickly snatched a wad of tissues out of the box on her desk and returned to him, pressing them against his nostrils and tipping his head back as she did. He whimpered at the contact. His entire face was throbbing and the pain was causing his eyes to tear up. "You're being very brave. What's your name?" the teacher asked._

"_Mark," he said quietly._

"_Ok, Mark, I want you to hold those tissues right there and keep your head back. I'm going to be right back," she said comfortingly, and Mark gave the best nod he could. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the teacher quickly scooted over towards the boy who fell. He was lying on his stomach on the ground, his eyes closed and his forehead resting on the carpet, both hands over the back of his head. Mrs. Grant gently put a hand on his shoulder, a worried look on her face as she spoke to him. "Honey, can I see where you hit your head?" He didn't answer, but he didn't put up a fight as she pulled his small hands away. There was no blood, but through the boy's short hair, even Mark could see the swollen knot forming where his skull had made contact with the ground. Or possibly Mark's nose._

_The teacher looked semi-relieved, but there was still concern on her face. "Can you roll over?" she asked the boy gently. It took him a minute, but he finally turned onto his back, leaving a smear of paint on the carpet where he'd been lying. His eyes were clamped tightly shut and his head was turned sideways to avoid pressing the bump into the ground. "Good," she praised him. Mark could feel the tissues in his hand becoming soaked with blood. He really just wanted his mom. She would take care of him._

_The teacher glanced at him quickly, and she must have noticed his dilemma. She turned back to the boy on the ground. "Sweetie, can you tell me your name?"_

"_Roger," he answered slowly, his eyes still closed._

_She nodded in approval when he answered the question. "Ok, Roger, I want you to just wait here, okay?"_

"_K," the boy said quietly._

_The teacher stood up, snatching more tissues off her desk before returning to Mark and gently replacing the ones he had. She then moved to the phone and dialed a number. Mark listened to the one-sided conversation._

"_Hi, Donna, it's Mary Grant," she said, "I need your help. I've got two boys here who had an accident. One has a pretty serious bloody nose and the other hit his head. Yes, I can't leave the other students. Can you? Room 116. Thank you so much." She hung up the phone and returned to the boys, kneeling between them. "Boys, the school nurse is going to come here and take you back to her office, okay? Her name is Mrs. Nelson and she's going to make sure you're alright."_

_Mark again gave a tiny nod, wishing for anything to stop the blood gushing out of his nose. He wasn't scared of it, but he knew that it was supposed to stay in his body and that's where he wanted it. Looking at the teacher, he realized that she was obviously torn between helping Mark stop the bleeding and making sure that Roger was awake and aware. Luckily, it wasn't long before the classroom door opened and an older woman came through pushing a wheelchair, followed by a younger man pushing another. The woman immediately approached them._

"_Look at you two, causing trouble on the first day," she said kindly, though Mark could see the concern in her eyes as she looked between him and Roger. She knelt down next to Mark first, gently pulling his hand away from his nose. She frowned. "Ouch," she said sympathetically, admiring his swollen face. "Good job, Hon, keep holding those tissues for right now. I'm going to take a better look at it later." She gently pressed a few more clean ones up to his face and he held onto them. "We'll get that fixed, don't worry."_

_As she moved towards Roger, the man who came in with her approached him. "Hey, Mark," he said with a bright smile. " You can call me Dan. Don't worry, Bud, we're going to help you feel better."_

_Mark didn't know why, but he immediately liked this man._

"_Do you think you can stand up?" He held out a hand, ready to help._

_Mark nodded, reaching out and grasping the man's large fingers. Dan easily pulled him up, and holding onto Mark's shoulders, steered him towards one of the wheelchairs. He made it in a few shaky steps._

"_Here we go," Dan said, reaching down and lifting Mark gently under the arms, seating him in the chair and standing next to him to keep him company. Mark had a good view of the boy on the ground. He was still lying down, though his eyes were finally open. They were a bright green, made even brighter by the flashlight that was currently being shined into them. The boy flinched away from the light._

_Mark watched as the two women eventually supported the boy's shoulders while he sat up. He kept tilting sideways, and Mark could tell that he was dizzy. "Be right back, Mark," Dan said, tapping him on the shoulder lightly. He walked over and knelt down next to Roger, who looked at him through bleary eyes._

_Dan laughed. "I bet you see about three of me right now, don't you?" Roger gave a tiny affirmative nod, and Dan laughed again. "All right, Big Guy, let's get outta here, okay?" He reached down and lifted the boy up, cradling him against his chest and sitting him in the wheelchair next to Mark's. Dan then returned, grabbing the handles of his chair while Mrs. Nelson took Roger's and they were pushed out of the room, the teacher calling, "Feel better, boys!" as they left._

* * *

_In the nurse's office, they had settled Roger and Mark onto two beds next to each other. Dan quickly pulled an icepack out of the freezer and was sitting with Roger, holding it onto the back of his head. Mrs. Nelson was currently prodding at Mark's nose, which had finally stopped bleeding. The pain made Mark want to cry, but he wouldn't let himself. Roger wasn't crying._

"_Well, Mark, you are one lucky boy. I don't think your nose is broken, but it's going to be very sore and bruised for a while. Your eyes are probably going to bruise up, too." She handed him an icepack as well and helped him press it against his nose carefully. She gave him a kind smile and smoothed his hair back softly, and he relished the comfort. He wanted to go home._

_The nurse must have read his mind. Her next words were, "As soon as I check on Roger, I'm going to call both of your parents and have them come pick you guys up. You need to go home." She walked over to Roger. Dan took the icepack away from his head and Mrs. Nelson reached up to check on the knot. She felt around it, brushing her fingers through his hair and prodding certain areas gently. Roger jerked away from her touch, closing his eyes. "Sorry, Sweetie, almost done," she said softly._

_Suddenly a little girl came into the office, her hand holding up the leg of her shorts, blood running down her cut finger. "Dan, can you take care of that?" she asked, and he got up, ushering the little girl to the other side of the room._

_Mrs. Nelson continued to check Roger's head, then she started asking him questions like, "When is your birthday? How old are you? Do you remember what happened?"_

_Mark was confused. Those were easy questions. If that was all he was expected to know in kindergarten, then he didn't have anything to worry about._

_Roger answered each of her questions in a small voice. She nodded. "Okay, good. You did very well. I'm a little worried about how hard you hit your head, though. I'm going to tell your mom that it might be best if you go see a doctor." Roger nodded slowly. He still looked a little bit out of it, but he was responding much better than he was earlier._

"_Boys, I know both of you are tired, so I want you to just take it easy. I'm going to call your moms." She entered a little room attached to the office and picked up the phone._

_Mark looked at the boy next to him. He appeared nice enough. Mark was about to open his mouth to say something, but Roger beat him to it._

"_Sorry 'bout your nose," he said quietly, lifting his eyes to meet Mark's. "I didn't mean to." He looked upset with himself._

_Mark shrugged. "It's okay," he answered. "Sorry 'bout your head."_

_Roger responded with a little shrug of his own. "It's okay. My mama says I have a hard head." Roger tugged at his shirt, picking at the green paint that was drying on the front. "I feel real bad about hurting you," he said, looking at Mark again. "I'll be your best friend if you promise not to be mad at me," he offered sincerely, and Mark was surprised. A friend? He'd made a friend on the first day of school? Not even just a friend—a _best _friend._

"_Okay!" Mark agreed enthusiastically._

"_You promise you won't be mad at me?" Roger confirmed._

_Mark nodded. "I promise!" he said. "And you promise to be my best friend?"_

_Roger grinned, showing his dimples. "I promise."_

Collins looked between Mark and Roger, shaking his head. "For some strange reason, I'm really not surprised. You two are exactly the type to cause a scene like that on the first day."

Maureen giggled slightly. "Seriously, Roger?" she said, and he turned to look at her, a confused expression on his face. "A head injury at the age of five? That explains so much."

Roger's face dropped into a scowl. He rolled his eyes as the others laughed at his expense. Mimi was chuckling, but she reached up and gently stroked the back of his head as if she could soothe away the long-healed injury, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Roger finally snickered as well. "That was a weird day," he admitted. "But hey, Mark and I became friends, we got to go home early, and, best of all, I didn't get in trouble for touching the forbidden paint!"

Mark shook his head, smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Whew, this is a long one. Enjoy :)**

**Disclaimer:** The lyrics in this chapter aren't mine. They belong to The Beatles :)

**Chapter 5**

January 24, 1992

They continued passing around the photos from Mark's box. Many of them were of Mark and his family, but there was a great deal of both him and Roger together. Some of the later ones featured just Roger, and Mark suspected that he had taken those after he finally got his own camera. The pictures seemed to have been in something resembling chronological order when they were placed in the box, and the further they dug, the older the Mark in the photos became.

It was interesting to see the physical changes that both he and Roger went through as time progressed. Mark, who had been quite small as a toddler, slowly became taller, his body stretching naturally into an average height for a boy. His torso remained thin as he grew, his shoulders small and skinny. His features became attractive as his face matured, leaving him with a strong jawline and a masculine square chin. His hair, of course, was the constant in every photo.

Roger also became taller as the pictures went on, finally ending up a good three inches taller than Mark as they started high school. He remained lean, though his shoulders broadened in a way that Mark's hadn't. Roger's features became sharper and more defined, and his hair slowly progressed from a light blonde to brown, until he got bored and began dying it back to the light color again.

They were nearing the last of the pictures, and Mark could honestly say that he was a little bit disappointed. It had been fun going through all the memories of his younger days. It was a bittersweet feeling. In a way, he was glad that he was grown up and on his own, but at the same time, he longed for the days in these pictures. Life had been so much simpler when things like work, money, and AIDS had been from his mind.

"Hey, Mark, what's this?" Maureen reached into the box and pulled out an old roll of film, handing it to Mark. He studied it, rolling it in his hands and looking for a label with some indication of its contents. There was none.

"Huh, I don't know," he answered. "Probably my mom filming something random. Or me screwing around with my camera." He held onto the roll, clenching it tightly in his fist. _It's probably nothing special_, he told himself, but he was secretly very curious. He had always been very careful about properly labeling anything that he filmed, a trait he had learned from his parents, and it intrigued him that whomever had stored this one seemed to have forgotten this time.

"Well, put it on the projector!" Maureen said enthusiastically, slapping his arm with the back of her hand as if to spur him into action.

"Yeah!" Mimi added with excitement. Mark glared at them. He knew that they were hoping it was something embarrassing.

"Come on, Mark, might as well!" Collins encouraged with a grin, but Roger was shaking his head vigorously.

"No, no, no," he said stubbornly. "What if it's a sex tape or something?"

Mark shot him a look, his eyebrows furrowed at the stupid joke. "Shut up, Roger, it's not a sex tape," he assured in an annoyed tone.

Roger looked at him, his eyes wide. "You don't know that. I just think maybe you should preview it."

Mark smirked. He suspected that Roger feared the film involved them doing something stupid and embarrassing, and for that reason he didn't want it seen. An embarrassing video would be a whole lot worse than a picture. But Mark was curious himself, and he was beyond caring.

"Relax, Rog," Collins cut in before Mark could answer. "It can't be a sex tape. That would require that Mark actually have sex." He grinned, his white teeth showing in stark contrast with his dark skin.

"Fuck you, Collins," Mark responded, pushing himself to stand up. He walked over to retrieve his projector and turn off the lights.

"I know you dream about it," Collins called at his retreating back.

Mark shook his head, rolling his eyes. He returned with his projector and began setting it up, aiming it towards the blank wall of the loft. Snatching the role of film off the wooden floor and inserting it into the machine, he asked, "Okay, ready?"

There were affirmative nods from everyone except Roger, who was sitting moodily with his arms crossed.

Mark stared at him, waiting for a response.

Roger glared before huffing out a sigh. "Fine," he said, and Mark turned back to the camera. "But I swear to God, Mark, if this is a sex tape, I'm out."

Mark began rolling the film, and what he saw on the screen surprised him.

It was Roger. He was fairly young, probably about 17, with his dyed blonde hair gelled up into the spikes that he liked so much. His face was young and smooth, carefree.

He was sitting on a stool in what appeared to be music classroom, an acoustic guitar resting on one knee. The fingers of his left hand moved skillfully over the neck as he repeatedly struck a black pick against the strings. His body rocked as his arm swung, and the melody echoed through the room. He was singing, and his voice had the same wonderful rasp that it still held today.

But Roger wasn't the only one on screen. On another stool next to him was a man, and Mark couldn't believe that he was in this film. He was in his early-to-mid thirties, good-looking with a clean shaven face and short, brown hair. His eyes were kind, and there was a smile on his lips, though he too was singing. He held a red electric guitar, and he played along as well. Mark paused, and it wasn't until he focused on the lyrics that he remembered filming this:

_And when the broken hearted people  
Living in the world agree  
There will be an answer, let it be  
For though they may be parted  
There is still a chance that they will see  
There will be an answer, let it be  
Let it be, let it be  
Let it be, let it be  
Yeah there will be an answer, let it be  
Let it be, let it be  
Let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be_

It was a beautiful song, and Mark couldn't help but admire the way that their voices blended together, complementing and highlighting each other. He smiled when he saw how much they seemed to be feeling the music, their fingers dancing over the frets of their guitars. But Mark's good mood vanished when he focused again on the man sitting beside Roger, and he dared a glance sideways at his best friend.

Roger's demeanor had changed completely. He was no longer pouting. His knees were pulled up in front of him and his elbows were resting on them lightly, right hand clasped around the opposite wrist. His mouth had dropped open, and his gaze was fixed intently on the screen. Mark couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but he knew that they would be fixed on the older man.

He turned back to the screen, watching as the musicians finished the song. As the ringing of the guitar strings faded out, a voice could be heard from behind the camera. Mark recognized it as his own.

"Encore, encore!" His voice called, and the two people in the film smiled directly into the lens. The older man reached over and affectionately ruffled Roger's hair, sticking his tongue out and grinning as he did so.

Roger's attempt to dodge the hand was unsuccessful, so he reached up and swiped at it, knocking it away with a grin of his own. He looked back at the camera, his eyes sparkling. It was strange to Mark, to see this young version of his best friend. This was the Roger that he had grown up with. This was the Roger that was confident and mischievous, and overall very happy. The Roger that Mark knew now had lost some of that joyful innocence that he'd had when he was younger, and sometimes Mark missed that about him. _Although I'm not so innocent myself, anymore_, he realized.

The Roger in the film spoke towards the camera. "How was that, Mark? You figure that camera out yet?"

"Yeah, it's great," he responded. His voice sounded young.

Roger nodded in satisfaction, absentmindedly plucking out a song that Mark had heard many times. _Musetta's Waltz_.

The older man on screen turned to the boy next to him. "What do you say, Rog, you got time for one more before you head home?" He raised a hopeful eyebrow, and Roger grinned in response.

"Hell yeah!" he answered enthusiastically, and re-adjusted the wooden guitar on his lap.

"How about In My Life?" The older man questioned.

"You gonna screw it up like last time?" Roger gave a cheeky grin, and the man glared at him before looking directly into the camera.

"Smart ass," he said loudly, pointing a finger sideways at Roger. "Alright, on my count."

It wasn't long before the sound of music filled the air again, and the screen went black.

Mark turned to his friend, who was still staring blankly at the wall where the scene had played out. He put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

Mimi spoke up. "Who was that, Roger?"

Roger remained quiet and motionless, but suddenly stood up, almost knocking over what was left of his beer. "I'll be back," he said quickly, making a move to step over Mimi and head toward the fire escape.

"Roger, wait! What's wrong? Who was that?" She reached out to grab his pant leg in an effort to keep him from leaving. He turned around at her touch, lowering his head to look at her, and Mark saw the pain in his eyes.

"A friend," Roger whispered, taking a step away from them. "I'm sorry, I just…" He looked directly at Mimi. "I'm okay, Meems, I promise. I'll be back in a few." He headed towards the fire escape, but not before picking up the red Fender leaning against the wall. He went outside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Mark sighed, his shoulders sagging a bit. He looked up at the others and saw them staring at him with sadness and confusion in their eyes. They could tell that something had upset Roger, and they were waiting for an explanation.

"Mark, who was that?" Maureen asked quietly. "Why is Roger so upset?"

Mark looked directly at her, taking in her curious eyes, and then he looked at the floor in the middle of their little circle. "That's Mr. Kerzman, but we just called him Kerz," Mark said fondly. "He taught music classes at our high school."

Maureen nodded in understanding. "So Roger knew him through classes," she said.

"Well, not exactly," Mark corrected. "They met in our first week of ninth grade. Roger was being a troublemaker, as usual…"

"_Roger," Mark said, desperately trying to get his friend's attention. "I really think we should just go home. Come on, you're going to get us in trouble in our first week here."_

_Roger looked at him from where he was peeking through the small window in the classroom door. "You can go if you want to," he said, turning back to the window. "I'm just going to check it out real quick." He reached for the door handle, smiling when it turned easily in his hand. "See, they don't care if you go in. It's not even locked."_

_Mark rolled his eyes. "The lights are off and there's no teacher. I wouldn't exactly call it an open invitation." It's not as though Mark wasn't up for a little exploring. He was generally more than willing. But he knew that there was a time and a place, and their second day of high school probably wasn't it. They didn't know anyone well enough to weasel their way out of the consequences._

_Roger just shrugged, pushing the door open and smoothly stepping inside. Mark quickly looked down the deserted hall before following his friend, leaving the door open just a crack behind him._

_Roger flipped on the classroom lights, taking a look around the room. It was fairly large, and there were a variety of instruments lining the walls. A drum set was straight across from them at the back of the room, and a large piano was pushed into one of the front corners._

_Roger immediately strode towards the drums while Mark made his way to the giant gong that he spotted on his right. He was debating whether or not to pick up the mallet and give it an experimental ring when Roger's excited voice caught his attention._

"_Whoa, Mark, check this out!"_

_Mark's eyes located his friend on the opposite side of the room. Mark headed over, stopping at his side. In front of them was a simple black stand holding a red electric guitar. The writing across the head read 'Fender'._

"_How cool is this thing?" Roger's eyes were wide with wonder. Mark didn't quite share his friend's enthusiasm for guitars, but he appreciated the sleekness of the instrument. It was a far cry from Roger's old acoustic that he played all the time._

"_Yeah, it's nice."_

"_God, I'd love to have one of these someday." Roger reached out a hand towards the guitar as if to pluck a string, but his fingers never had the chance to make contact._

"_You like it?" Both boys spun around at the voice, and Mark noticed Roger's hand quickly snap back to his side. Mark focused on the man who had spoken._

_He must have managed to squeeze his way through the partially open door without Mark and Roger noticing. He was fairly tall, with a medium build and a kind, handsome face. He was wearing jeans and a simple t-shirt._

_Roger finally answered his question. "Yeah, it's awesome," he responded sincerely. "Is it yours?"_

_The man nodded, throwing his coat carelessly over a stool in the front. "Yep. I saved up for a while and finally bought it about six months ago."_

_Roger looked back at the guitar. "It's one to be proud of," he said._

"_Sure is." The man lifted his chin towards them. "You guys play?"_

_Mark shook his head. "I don't, but he does."_

_The man nodded again. He addressed Roger. "You any good?"_

_Roger shrugged. "I'm okay," he mumbled, and Mark was shocked at Roger's modesty. He knew his friend was better than okay for his age._

_Mark decided to speak up. "He's great," Mark said, glancing at Roger, who looked away. Mark didn't understand why Roger was so shy all of the sudden. "He's got his own band and everything."_

"_Right on. Do you sing too?"_

_Roger gave an affirmative nod._

_The man looked at Roger with something that may have been admiration. "How old are you?" he asked._

"_Fourteen."_

_The man smiled. "That's how old I was when I started my first band." His face took on a wistful look. "I miss it. Playing alone is a completely different feeling, you know?"_

_Roger nodded in understanding. "Playing in a band gives you a feeling of completion."_

"_Exactly," the man agreed. "There's a sense of satisfaction, knowing that you're playing just a part of the finished product." He looked at Roger intently for a moment. "I guess I haven't really introduced myself. I'm Brad Kerzman. What's your name?"_

"_Roger Davis."_

_The man turned to Mark. "And yours?"_

"_Mark Cohen."_

"_And what are you into, Mark? You like music?"_

_Mark shrugged. "I like it," he said, "but I'm more into photography and film."_

"_Cool. It's great to have a hobby. Doesn't have to be guitar, just something that you enjoy," he said with a smile. "Hey, I'd love to hear you play, Roger. You want to bring your guitar by tomorrow after school? You can show me what you've got."_

_Mark glanced at his best friend. He looked surprised._

"_Yeah, sure!" Roger said, a smile spreading across his face. "That'd be awesome."_

"_Sweet. Mark, you're welcome to come hang out as well, if you'd like."_

_Mark gave a grateful nod. He turned to his friend, suddenly realizing that they'd stayed longer than they'd meant to. "Roger, my mom's going to call the police if we aren't home soon. We should probably go."_

_Mr. Kerzman laughed. "Ah, the joys of overprotective mothers," he said with a wink. "You guys better get going. You'll be here tomorrow?"_

"_We'll be here," Roger confirmed. "Thanks for everything." He turned to Mark and they headed towards the door._

"_Oh, and uh, I'll make sure I leave the lights on. That'll make it easier next time you want to break into my room," Mr. Kerzman said casually, and they turned to find a grin on his face. Mark could tell he wasn't angry—only amused._

_Roger put his hands up defensively. "Hey, we didn't break in," he said with a mischievous smirk. "The door was unlocked."_

_Mr. Kerzman laughed. "Oh, my mistake, that's completely different," he said sarcastically. "I apologize for making such lofty accusations."_

_Roger gave a nod of mock-solemnity. "You're forgiven."_

"_Alright, now get outta here!" Mr. Kerzman growled playfully._

"_Later!" Roger shouted as they left the room, and Mark pulled the door closed behind them._

"Roger took his guitar into Kerzman's room the next day, and he impressed the shit out of him." Mark remembered the look on the man's face when Roger played a difficult song with ease. He couldn't hide the respect that spread across his features. "And I don't know, I guess they just clicked. Roger went to his room every day after class for the rest of high school. They'd hang out and talk, play guitar just for the hell of it. He'd help Roger learn new songs, and he'd tell him stories about all this traveling he did during the summers." Mark smiled. "Kerz loved having him there. It gave him someone to play with again, and they became friends. And Roger couldn't get enough of the guy. I'd stop by every once in a while, but it was really Roger's thing." Mark tilted his head to the side in thought. "Roger's dad was never really around when he was growing up," he said cautiously, "and when he was, he wasn't exactly a good guy." Mark's eyes darkened, but he refused to breach that topic too deeply at the moment. "I think, in a way, Kerz was a father figure to Roger."

Mimi was nodding sadly. Mark suspected that Roger had told her very little of his issues with his father, but it wasn't difficult to guess that their relationship had been a rocky one.

"He was the only teacher who really treated Roger like he was something special," Mark explained to his friends. "Other teachers wrote him off as a slacker or a troublemaker. Roger was an okay student, but things like math and science didn't hold his attention. He loved music. And Kerzman was the only one who really understood that."

"I'm surprised Roger's never mentioned this guy before," Collins said. "Sounds like he was a big part of his life."

"He was," Mark nodded. "For about four years."

Mimi had been listening to the story intently. "How come Roger never talks about him? What happened?"

Mark sighed, his shoulders slumping. His gaze flicked up to look around the circle. "He died," he said quietly, sadness in his voice. He could see the hurt in his friends' eyes. They felt sympathy for Roger, and for him too, he supposed. It wasn't an easy thing, to see a friend upset, and Mark appreciated their understanding. He cleared his throat. "It was February of our senior year. I wasn't supposed to be there, but I wanted to stop by and say hi…"

_Mark strolled down the deserted hallway, his feet slapping loudly on the tiled floor. He'd been in the photography room developing pictures for his project, but he'd finished early and decided to hang with Roger for a bit. He approached the music room, finding the door open just a crack. His hand was halfway to the handle when he paused, hearing quiet voices from within._

"_Roger, I want to talk to you about something." That was Kerz's voice._

_Mark heard his best friend strum his guitar gently, and then say, "Okay, fire away."_

_Silence, and then, "__I'm going to be leaving tomorrow."_

_Mark practically heard Roger's jaw drop. His own was practically on the floor, as well._

"_You're _leaving_?" Roger repeated with disbelief. Mark heard the sheer hurt in his voice clearly. "You're… You're coming back, though. Right?" Roger's voice was practically begging._

_There was more silence from inside the room._

"_I wish I could," Kerz said finally, and his voice was shaky. "Roger, I have brain cancer."_

_Mark's heart dropped from his place outside the door, ear tilted towards the opening. _Brain cancer? _He thought. _Are you fucking serious?

_Kerz continued when Roger said nothing. "I've been feeling off these past few weeks- headaches and stuff," he explained quietly. "I went to the doctor." His voice faded, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "They say that I only have a couple months to live," he finished. "The cancer's really aggressive, and it wasn't caught in time. My sister is living in England with her husband, and I'm going to go visit her. Do a little more traveling while I still can." His voice was quiet and sad._

_There was another long silence from the room, and Mark could only imagine the thoughts that must be going through Roger's head. Suddenly, there was a crash._

"_No!" A voice yelled loudly, and Mark instantly knew that Roger had snapped into action, probably knocking over his stool as he stood up. "No, you can't die! You can't!" He was screaming, his voice harsh and angry. Mark listened as he continued to yell at Kerzman. "You're not even 40, you can't die! There's got to be something they can do!"_

"_There's nothing, Roger. It's just my time."_

"_No!" Roger yelled again, but his voice suddenly quieted down. "No, you can't. It's not fair. You can't die. Please don't die," Roger's voice broke, and Mark's heart was aching listening to his friend plead with the man. Roger had finally found a father figure to guide him, and that was suddenly being snatched away._

_It was quiet for a moment, and Kerzman spoke. "Roger, I need you to do something for me, okay?"_

"_Anything," Roger responded._

"_There's something that I want to give you." Mark couldn't resist taking a peek into the room. He carefully looked through the window as Kerzman approached Roger. "I want you to have this," he said, and in his hands was his beautiful red Fender. He held it out to Roger._

_Roger stared at it in shock. "What? No, I can't take that. That's your guitar." He shook his head in refusal, taking a step backwards._

_Kerzman held it out a little farther, determination shining in his eyes. "Exactly. And you're the only one I know who'll take care of it for me. Can you do that? Please? It'll need a good home."_

_Roger stared at him for a second in disbelief and sadness before slowly reaching out a shaking hand to take the guitar. He pulled it carefully into his grip, looking at it in amazement before raising his eyes to stare once more at Kerz._

_Mark felt himself choking up as he watched Roger's eyes fill with tears, which quickly spilled down onto his cheeks. It was only a second before Kerz reached out and grabbed Roger's shoulder, pulling him into an embrace. Roger threw an arm around Kerz's waist, the other still clutching the Fender, and buried his face into the man's chest._

_Mark finally decided that he should make his presence known, so he quietly pushed open the door and stood in the entrance. Roger hadn't noticed him, but Kerz gave him a guilty look, almost as if apologizing for doing this to his friend._

_Kerz pulled Roger tighter, one hand on the back of his head. "I'm sorry, Kid. I'm so sorry," he whispered. He made eye contact with Mark over Roger's shoulder, giving him a nod. "But you're going to be okay, Roger. You'll be okay. I promise."_

_In that moment, Mark knew that Kerz was trusting him to make those words true._

The loft was quiet as Mark finished recounting the scene. His friends glanced between him and the door to the fire escape where Roger had retreated.

"But he sold that guitar," Mimi said softly. "Before he left for Santa Fe."

"Yeah. But he came back and managed to buy it again before anyone else could." Mark shook his head. "He still hasn't forgiven himself for that."

"I'm sorry, Mark," Maureen said quietly. "You knew him, too. It must have been hard on you both."

Mark shrugged, nodding. "Thanks, Maureen." The loft fell silent again, almost as if out of respect for the man who'd died years ago. That was the moment when Roger re-entered.

He took a few steps into the loft, coming to a halt when he noticed the silence and the stares he was recieving. His eyes sought Mark's, and Mark saw the question there. _They know?_

Mark gave a small nod.

Roger sighed, gently lifting the Fender from his body and placing it on the table. Mimi suddenly jumped up from the floor and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. "I'm so sorry," she said, her hand on his cheek.

Roger pulled away from her slightly, a stubborn look in his eye. "Don't be," he said. He took her hand, pulling her back towards the group and reclaiming his seat on the floor. "Seriously, guys, please don't look at me like that. He was a good guy, and he died." Roger's eyes were sad, but his voice was clear and sure, stating the facts. "I'm grateful for the time I got to spend with him. He changed my life."

Mark turned his head to look at his friend, and Roger's eyes met his. Mark hoped that Roger could see the pride in his gaze. Mark clearly remembered the conversation he'd had with Roger following the news that Kerz had passed away.

_They boys were sitting in the small park between their streets. It was dark, almost midnight, and Mark was planted in the cold grass next to his best friend. The wind blew gently, teasing at their hair._

"_I can't believe he's actually gone, Mark." Roger was slumped over, hugging his knees tightly to his chest. "It just doesn't seem fair to me."_

"_It's not fair," Mark agreed. "It's bullshit. But he lived a great life, Roger. You know that." Though Kerz had never been married nor had kids, he'd told them multiple stories of his travels that had entertained the boys to no end._

"_Yeah, I guess so," Roger said quietly. Mark hated hearing the sadness in his voice._

_He looked at his friend for a minute before leaning back onto his hands and straightening his legs out in front of him. He glanced up at the clear sky, observing the stars that twinkled innocently._

"_You know," Mark started, "I've always thought that every day that a person is given is a gift." He saw Roger turn his head towards him slightly, as if waiting for him to continue. "Nobody is guaranteed to live to be 100, but that's okay. What matters is how you spend the time that you have. You need to make it count, you know? Be fearless and do what you want to do, because there's no telling when it'll be too late." Roger turned to look at him, a strange look in his eyes, and Mark stared back. "Kerz made every day count, Roger. He changed a lot of lives- especially yours. And I'm positive that you changed his as well." Mark gave a small smile. "You should be proud of that."_

_Roger nodded, and a hint of a smile formed on his own face. It was the first that Mark had seen in a couple days. "Thanks," Roger said sincerely. "You did too, you know," he added, and Mark's eyebrow rose in confusion. Roger clarified. "You changed his life, too. He liked you a lot. Always wanted to know how your films were coming."_

_Mark looked away from his friend and back up at the night sky. He didn't really know what else to say. "He was a good guy," he concluded._

_There was a stretch of silence before Roger spoke up again._

"_I don't want to die like he did, Mark."_

_Mark was surprised. Where had that come from? He glanced at his friend, waiting for him to explain._

_Roger picked at the grass with his fingers, flicking the shredded pieces away absentmindedly. "I don't want some disease to eat away at me until I'm gone." He shook his head. "I want it to be fast, you know?" He stopped picking the grass, a determined look on his face. "I want to go out in a blaze of glory."_

Mark had replayed that conversation in his mind more than once after Roger had been diagnosed with HIV. It was a cruel twist of irony. The one way that Roger had hoped not to die was exactly how he was going to. It made Mark sick to think about.

Roger glanced at him, his eyes filled with acceptance, and Mark wondered if Roger had been remembering that same conversation. Roger turned away suddenly. "So Maureen, anymore pictures in that box?"

Maureen stared at him for a second, as if pondering whether it was actually acceptable to return to the fun they'd been having, before a smile broke out on her face and she reached into the cardboard box. "These are the last of them," she said, pulling out a small handful of photos.

Taking the stack from Maureen, Mark spread them out on the floor in front of him. "Hey, these are from our high school graduation," he said in surprise. "I'd wondered where these went."

The pictures showed him, in his navy blue cap and gown, posing with various friends and family members. His parents, his sister, and his grandparents all had their own photo. One photo in particular caught his attention. "Hey, look at this, Rog."

He picked it up, handing it to his friend. It was of the both of them, each still dressed in their graduation gowns, with one arm thrown over each other's shoulders, the other held in the air in celebration. Their faces were bright with excitement, eyes shining and smiles gleaming.

"Look at you two," Mimi said fondly, taking the picture from Roger's hand to get a glimpse before handing it off to Joanne. "You look like brothers."

Roger grinned as he glanced over at Mark, reaching out an arm and clapping it onto Mark's shoulder. "We are," Roger said, his eyes glinting meaningfully. "In everything but blood."

**Hope you liked it! I really tried to make Kerzman a likeable character in a short amount of time, so hopefully that came across in the story. My goal was to show that he really treated Roger more like a friend than a student.**

**Again, the song is Let It Be by The Beatles. Let me know what you thought!**


	6. Chapter 6

**And here we go, Roger's gig! I'm not creative enough to think of a clever band name, so for the purpose of this story, Roger's band is still The Well Hungarians, as it is in the show.**

**Also, I know that there's a lot of lyrics in this chapter, but remember that these are supposed to be lyrics that Roger has written. This is kind of Mark's insight into Roger's state of mind at this point in his life. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer**: None of the lyrics used in this chapter are mine (though forgive me, I did change one word in one of the songs). The names of the songs and the artists are at the end of the chapter.

**Chapter 6**

February 6, 1992

The week passed smoothly for Mark. He'd only had to work Monday through Wednesday, and he'd spent Thursday and Friday afternoons trying to piece together parts of his film. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted to do with it yet, but maybe he could find a film festival to enter. More than anything, it was his way of keeping busy.

He'd gone through the film that he'd taken already, and he was fairly pleased with what he had. His friends were, for the most part, good sports about him filming them, though he did have to deal with some complaining from Roger, who would often try to take the camera and turn it on him.

One of Mark's favorite clips had been a shot from the previous weekend. Mimi had been attempting to teach Collins some of the dance moves that she had used at the Cat Scratch, and Collins was doing his best to mimic her. However, he was a big man and didn't move as naturally as she did. He looked more like he was having a seizure than dancing. Behind them, Joanne, Maureen, and Roger were laughing so hard that they were leaning on one another in an attempt to stay upright.

It was about 7:00 on Friday evening, and he'd just finished writing down a few notes on a piece of scratch paper when his roommate entered the loft. He'd been with his band going over some final details for their performance, which was scheduled to start at 9:00.

"Hey," Roger said, sliding the door closed behind him and heading toward the kitchen for a glass.

"Hey. Did you get everything all set for tonight?" Mark was looking forward to the show, and he knew everyone else was as well. They'd planned to go together and Mark expected them to start showing up at the loft any time now.

Roger nodded, but Mark could feel the anxiety rolling off of him in waves. Roger filled a glass with water from the tap and downed it, setting it on the counter with more force than necessary. He leaned against the counter, palms on the edge and his head hanging down.

"Nervous?" Mark asked, but he knew the answer already.

Roger just stared into the sink, refusing to say anything.

"You guys are going to be great, Roger." Mark wasn't lying, either. He believed wholeheartedly that Roger and his band were going to kick ass at their show tonight. He knew his friend, and he knew how much work Roger had put into designing the best possible show.

Roger sighed and turned to face him. "It feels so crazy to be doing this again," he admitted. "It's been a long time since I've performed for people, and a lot of shit has happened since then. I mean, I've changed."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, you have," he agreed. "You've matured." He frowned, rethinking that statement. "Well, a little bit, at least," he teased.

Roger glared at him and rolled his eyes. "Thanks," he said sarcastically, but he was smiling and he looked a little bit calmer. He straightened up and let out a deep breath just as there was a knock on the door. It slid open and Mimi stepped in.

"Hey boys," she said, walking over towards Roger. He held out his arms for her and she stepped into his embrace.

"Hey, babe," Roger said, kissing her head.

"It sounds like the others are here," she informed them. "I think I heard them coming up the stairs behind me."

Sure enough, Mark could hear voices out in the hallway, and it was only a moment before Collins, Maureen, and Joanne appeared in the doorway.

"Hellllloooooo!" Maureen shouted when she saw them, and greeted them all with a round of tight hugs.

Collins held up a case of beer, a huge grin on his face. "Look what we've brought!" He set the beer on the table, opening the side and grabbing a few. "Now this is how to start a good night." He popped the caps and handed one to each of his friends as they headed over towards the couch. Mark quickly reached over and snatched his camera, turning it on and rolling it.

Collins raised his drink slightly. "May each of these beers bring you good luck tonight, Roger." He grinned, holding out his bottle and tapping it lightly against Roger's. They both tipped their bottles back, taking long swallows.

Mark took a gulp as well, relishing the cold liquid as it slid down his throat, then set his beer down on the table. "January 30, 7:10 pm, Eastern Standard Time." Mark narrated, smiling at the glares he received. "Close up on our resident rockstar Roger Davis, who is about to perform his first show in over two and a half years." He turned the camera towards the rocker, holding it barely two feet from him. He knew it would piss him off.

"Get it out of my face, Mark," Roger growled playfully, lifting his hand up and attempting to cover the lens, but Mark was too quick. He danced away, managing to keep his friend's face in the shot.

"Tell the folks at home how you're feeling, Roger," Mark said, walking backwards as Roger advanced towards him.

"I'm feeling like you'd better keep that thing away from me or I'm going to shove it so far up your ass that you'll never find it again."

"Cheerful bastard, isn't he?" Mark joked, but he regretted it instantly. Roger suddenly sprang into motion, sprinting towards him. "Ah, shit!" Mark managed to say as he tucked his camera under his arm and ran in the opposite direction. He heard Collins' booming laughter from somewhere behind him, and he also heard Maureen yell, "Get him!" in an excited tone.

Mark skidded across the floor, strategically placing the metal dining table between himself and Roger, who had a mischievous smirk on his face. Suddenly, Roger grabbed the edge of the table and shoved it sideways, just enough to force Mark to move. He made a break for it, heading for the opposite side of the loft and the safety of his bedroom, and he saw his friends scatter as he ran towards them. He'd barely made it five steps when he felt something large barrel into him from behind, tackling him into the couch. Mark quickly flipped over onto his back, grunting at the heavy object on his torso. He stared up into the grinning face of his best friend.

Roger had planted himself on Mark, effectively pinning him to the couch, and he easily yanked the camera out of Mark's grip. He obnoxiously aimed it right at Mark's face. "Close up on our resident dork, Mark Cohen," he mimicked in a teasing tone. "Why don't you tell us what you're feeling, Mark?"

"Well," he panted out in labored breaths, "right now I'm not feeling much of anything in my lower extremities. You're too fucking heavy." He desperately tried to tip Roger off of him.

"Let him breathe, Rog," Joanne said through her laughter. "I'm not acting as your lawyer if you murder him."

Roger considered this for a moment before lifting himself off of Mark's chest. He glared at Mark before slowly handing over the camera. "No more close-ups," he warned, holding out a hand to pull Mark into a sitting position. He walked over to the table, straightening it up, and then rejoined their friends, who had been watching the scene and cheering in encouragement. Mark leaned over, waiting a minute to regain his breath before also joining.

They chatted for a few minutes, until Roger asked, "What time is it?"

Joanne glanced at her watch. "7:35."

Roger's eyes widened slightly. "Shit, I have to go," he said, downing the rest of his beer.

Mimi grabbed his arm and pulled him into a kiss, breaking apart after a couple seconds. "Good luck," she said, a bright smile on her face.

"Thanks, Meems," Roger answered, hugging her. He stepped back and was pulled into a hug by Maureen.

"Rock on, Mr. Davis," she said, and he laughed. Joanne rubbed his back, wishing him good luck as well.

Maureen released him and Collins clapped him on the shoulder. "Make us proud, Rog," he said, beaming a classic Collins smile.

Finally, Mark locked eyes with his friend, and he knew that Roger understood everything that Mark wanted to say. He settled for, "We'll be there."

Roger nodded. "Thanks. I'll see you." They watched as he walked towards the door, picking up his guitar and throwing one last wave over his shoulder before the door closed.

* * *

They'd hung out at the loft for about another hour before they started walking to the club. As they entered through the doors, Mark took in the new surroundings. He'd never been in here before, as it had only been open for a few weeks, but it was obvious that good things had been said about the place. It was packed.

Mark led the group inside, his camera tucked under his arm and the others stretched out in a chain behind him. Maureen was holding on to his shirt to avoid losing him. Surprisingly, they found an empty table off to the side and pulled out the chairs, taking seats across from one another. Mark glanced up towards the stage. It was set up and ready to go for the band's performance.

"Anybody want another drink?" Mark asked, looking around at his friends. He was feeling antsy and he wasn't even the one performing.

"Yeah, let's get some beers." Collins pushed back his chair and stood up, and Mark followed him to the bar, leaving the ladies to save the table.

They bought enough beers for the group and headed back, balancing them in their hands and trying to avoid running into people. Just as they were sitting down again, the music pumping through the speakers died down. Mark saw a man walk onto the stage and approach the microphone.

"Hello, hello, everybody! I know everyone is looking for a good time tonight, so let's bring out our local band. Make some noise for The Well Hungarians!"

The man left the stage as the crowd broke out into cheers. Mark joined in, clapping and whooping with everybody else, noticing that Maureen and Mimi were screaming Roger's name.

When the band started filing onto the stage, Mark couldn't help but feel excited. First came the drummer, Jason, whom Mark had met a couple times. Jason took a seat behind the large drum set, grinning and flipping his long black hair out of his eyes.

He was followed by the bass player, Cameron, and the rhythm guitarist, Jeff, who were both built solidly of muscle, though they weren't overly huge. They each grabbed their instruments and settled in, adjusting the wires that ran across the stage.

But Mark cheered loudest of all when Roger appeared, and he laughed as he watched his friend approach the microphone. There was only one word that Mark could think of to describe Roger in that moment, and that word was "cool". He admitted it. Roger looked cool.

He had changed his clothes since he'd left the loft earlier. He was wearing a black sleeveless shirt that showed the tattoo on his right shoulder, and a pair of dark jeans that fit him tightly. His hair was spiked up perfectly, giving him the rocker look, and a sweatband hugged his right wrist. His red electric guitar was hanging around his neck, and he quickly plugged it into the amp before stopping in front of the microphone.

Mark pulled out his camera, getting ready to film. "I'm going to get closer," he decided.

"I'll come!" Mimi practically jumped up from her seat and lifted her beer off the table. Maureen, Joanne, and Collins stood up as well, following Mark as he pushed his way towards the stage, not particularly caring if he was pissing people off.

As he was walking through the crowd, he heard Roger's magnified voice fill the room.

"Hey, guys, how's everybody doing tonight?"

There were cheers from the crowd, and Mark could feel people jostling him back and forth. He fought his way through the mass until he ended up directly in front of the stage, and the others pulled up next to him. Mark aimed the camera towards his friend as he addressed the audience.

"Alright, well we're ready to have some fun, and I know you all are looking for a good time, so let's do it!"

There was another loud cheer from the crowd. Mark was glad that they seemed so responsive to a band that they had never even heard of before. That would make things go much more smoothly for Roger.

Roger turned to glance at his band mates briefly, and Jason nodded his head, counting them in before the music roared to life.

Mark instantly found himself taken in. It was a fast-paced song meant to pump up the crowd, and it was working. They were already nodding their heads along to the beat.

Mark focused on Roger. He was looking down at his guitar, his fingers expertly forming the shapes to play the chords, and then his head rose. He leaned into the microphone, beginning to sing the lyrics in his powerful raspy voice:

_This one goes out to the man who mines for miracles_

_This one goes out to the ones in need_

_This one goes out to the sinner and the cynical_

_This ain't about no apology_

_This road was paved by the hopeless and the hungry_

_This road was paved by the winds of change_

_Walking beside the guilty and the innocent_

_How will you raise your hand when they call your name?_

_Yeah, Yeah, Yeah_

As the people in the crowd sensed the chorus coming, they began whooping and hollering and jumping up and down. Mark glanced at Mimi. She was looking at Roger with adoration, and Mark realized that this was the first time she'd ever actually seen him perform on a stage.

Maureen and Joanne were dancing, their bodies bouncing up and down to the music, and Collins was getting into it as well. Mark smiled, looking back at Roger. He was impressed by the song, and he'd never heard Roger write anything like it before. The lyrics were sophisticated and meaningful, and more than just words that rhymed. _He's finally reached his potential_, Mark thought. As the song broke into the chorus, even Mark found himself bouncing with the beat, but he tried to hold the camera still:

_We weren't born to follow_

_Come on and get up off your knees_

_When life is a bitter pill to swallow_

_You gotta hold on to what you believe_

_Believe that the sun will shine tomorrow_

_And that your saints and sinners bleed_

_We weren't born to follow_

_You gotta stand up for what you believe_

_Let me hear you say yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah_

_This one's about anyone who does it differently_

_This one's about the one who cusses and spits_

_This ain't about our livin' in a fantasy_

_This ain't about givin' up or givin' in_

_Yeah, Yeah, Yeah_

_We weren't born to follow_

_Come on and get up off your knees_

_When life is a bitter pill to swallow_

_You gotta hold on to what you believe_

_Believe that the sun will shine tomorrow_

_And that your saints and sinners bleed_

_We weren't born to follow_

_You gotta stand up for what you believe_

_Let me hear you say yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah_

_Let me hear you say yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah_

And suddenly, the solo sound of an electric guitar rose above the other instruments, the notes sounding out a complicated little riff. It took Mark a second to realize that it was Roger who was playing the solo. And he was rocking it.

He was leaning away from the mic, his body hunched over his guitar and his shoulders moving as his hand slid up and down the neck. His face was focused and concentrated, his head nodding up and down. The audience was loving it, cheering as his guitar screamed. Mark yelled with them. He hadn't heard Roger play like this in years. He'd almost forgotten that he could.

Just as his guitar faded out, he leaned back into the microphone, continuing the lyrics:

_We weren't born to follow_

_Come on and get up off your knees_

_When life is a bitter pill to swallow_

_You gotta hold on to what you believe_

_Believe that the sun will shine tomorrow_

_And that your saints and sinners bleed_

_We weren't born to follow_

_You gotta stand up for what you believe_

_Let me hear you say yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah_

_Let me hear you say yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah_

_We weren't born to follow - oh yeah_

_We weren't born to follow - oh yeah_

As the lyrics ended and the music began fading out, there was a loud round of applause and yells from the crowd. Roger looked up and his eyes landed on his friends near the front. He smiled.

"Thanks, guys, thank you," he said into the mic, trying to speak over the noise.

Mark laughed. The response to the band's first song was amazing—the cheering continued long after the song had ended. Mark knew that the rest of the show would be gold. The Well Hungarians had already won everybody over.

As the noise died down, Roger spoke. "Thank you so much, everybody. We're really happy to be here tonight," he said, gesturing to his band, "and we hope you're happy to have us here." There was a round of whooping and applause. "If you're not, well…" He shrugged. "Have a few more shots and I'm sure you'll have a blast regardless." He smiled, and there were chuckles and hollers from the crowd. "Alright, this next song carries a message that I know we've all heard a million times, but it's something that I've only recently taken to heart." Roger glanced at the group of Bohemians, giving a little nod that was meant only for them. "This one's called 'It's My Life'."

The music started up again, and Mark was curious to hear the lyrics. It wasn't long before Roger started in:

_This ain't a song for the broken-hearted_

_No silent prayer for the faith-departed_

_I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd_

_You're gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud_

_It's my life_

_It's now or never_

_I ain't gonna live forever_

_I just want to live while I'm alive_

_It's my life_

_My heart is like an open highway_

_Like Angel said I did it my way_

_I just want to live while I'm alive_

_It's my life_

Again, Mark was impressed with the meaning of his friend's song. His words sang of living every day to the fullest and being in control of your life and yourself. His lyrics had such personal meaning behind them that Mark almost felt intrusive listening to him sing. In a way, he felt like he was reading Roger's diary.

Again, the response when the song ended was positive, and the show continued into the night. Mark marveled at how comfortable his friend looked on stage. Roger had never exactly been an 'attention whore', but he had always handled himself well in the spotlight, even when they were kids. He was easily falling back into that as the show progressed. He knew how to keep the audience engaged through stories and jokes between songs, and his love for music could be seen in the way that his body moved with his guitar. It was almost like a dance.

When there was a break about halfway through the show, the crowd could hardly wait until the band took the stage again. Mark was surrounded by sweaty people who had been dancing the entire time, and his ears were ringing from the volume of the screams.

As another song ended, Roger spoke into the mic. "We're going to slow it down a bit, here," he said, and a couple of men rolled a piano out onto the stage as he spoke. The rhythm guitarist, Jeff, set down his guitar and took a seat at the piano.

Roger continued. "I see a lot of pretty ladies who look like they need someone to dance with," he said, addressing a couple of young men in the front.

Mark heard a girl standing behind him yell out, "How about you come dance with me?" Mark laughed. Roger had quickly gained some new fans, and many of them were of the female species.

The piano started playing a slow melody, and the others joined in eventually with their own instruments.

Mark glanced over at Maureen and Joanne, who were holding each other close and swaying to the music. He looked past them towards Collins and was surprised to see that he was dancing with a pretty woman, though Mark knew it was just for fun. It was funny though, the way that Collins attracted women even though he swung the other way.

Mark turned towards the stage again, and noticed that Roger was looking right at him as if he wanted something. Mark frowned, confused. Roger nodded his head towards Mimi and Mark suddenly understood.

He put his camera on the very edge of the stage, knowing that Roger wouldn't mind, and turned to Mimi. Holding out a hand, he put on a very cultured British accent. "Would you care for a dance, My Lady?"

Mimi giggled, taking his hand. He pulled her close, his arms around her waist and hers on his shoulders. They began rocking back and forth as Roger started singing.

_It's hard for me to say the things_

_I want to say sometimes_

_There's no one here but you and me_

_And that broken old street light_

_Lock the doors_

_We'll leave the world outside_

_All I've got to give to you_

_Are these five words_

_And I_

_Thank you for loving me_

_For being my eyes_

_When I couldn't see_

_For parting my lips_

_When I couldn't breathe_

_Thank you for loving me_

_Thank you for loving me_

Mark noticed that Roger had been staring at Mimi while he sang, and he knew without a doubt that Roger had written this song for her. Mimi's face was pressed into his chest, and Mark pulled back slightly to see her. She was crying, but Mark knew that she wasn't really upset.

Mark smiled at her. "His lyrics have gotten a lot better since Your Eyes, huh?" he said in a teasing tone.

She laughed through her tears. "I can't believe he writes these kinds of things," she admitted. "They're so beautiful."

Mark nodded, pulling her close again. "I know. But I guess it's easier when you're writing from your heart. All of these lyrics mean something to him."

She was quiet for a moment, deep in thought. "I love him so much, Mark," she whispered, and turned her head to look at the stage. Roger's eyes were closed, but almost as if he sensed her gaze, his eyes opened and he smiled brightly.

The song continued, and Mark swayed with Mimi until the final notes faded out. The couples on the dance floor broke apart and began applauding and whistling, praising the band for the slower pace that gave them a chance to be more intimate. Mark looked at his watch. It was past 11:00, and he knew the band would only be playing a few more songs. He grabbed his camera off the stage and aimed it towards the band again.

The next couple songs were upbeat, and the crowd jumped right back in to the faster pace, cheering and dancing as they played. Finally, around 11:30, Roger reached for the microphone, his face bright with sweat and his hair slightly damp.

"Okay, guys, we're going to leave you with one more tonight." Roger adjusted his guitar around his neck. "This is a song that I wrote after coming to terms with some things in my own life." He paused for a minute, and Mark wondered what he was thinking. "It was inspired by a conversation that I had with a friend who knows me better than anyone, and I owe him a lot. More than he'll ever know." Roger looked right at him as he said this, and Mark stared back. He gave a nod, showing that he understood. "It means a lot to me, personally, so I hope you guys will enjoy this one. Here we go."

The music started up, and Mark listened carefully for the lyrics. It was only a moment before Roger began singing:

_My best friend gave me the best advice_

_He said each day's a gift and not a given right_

_Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind_

_And try to take the path less traveled by_

_That first step you take is the longest stride_

_If today was your last day_

_Tomorrow was too late_

_Could you say goodbye to yesterday?_

_Would you live each moment like your last?_

_Leave old pictures in the past_

_Donate every dime you have?_

_If today was your last day_

_Against the grain should be a way of life_

_What's worth the prize is always worth the fight_

_Every second counts 'cause there's no second try_

_So live it like you'll never live it twice_

_Don't take the free ride in your own life_

_If today was your last day_

_Tomorrow was too late_

_Could you say goodbye to yesterday?_

_Would you live each moment like your last?_

_Leave old pictures in the past_

_Donate every dime you have?_

_Would you call old friends you never see?_

_Reminisce old memories_

_Would you forgive your enemies?_

_Would you find that one you're dreamin' of?_

_Swear up and down to God above_

_That you finally fall in love_

_If today was your last day_

_If today was your last day_

_Would you make your mark by mending a broken heart?_

_You know it's never too late to shoot for the stars_

_Regardless of who you are_

_So do whatever it takes_

_'Cause you can't rewind a moment in this life_

_Let nothin' stand in your way_

_Cause the hands of time are never on your side_

_If today was your last day_

_And tomorrow was too late_

_Could you say goodbye to yesterday?_

_Would you live each moment like your last?_

_Leave old pictures in the past_

_Donate every dime you have?_

_Would you call old friends you never see?_

_Reminisce old memories_

_Would you forgive your enemies?_

_Would you find that one you're dreamin' of?_

_Swear up and down to God above_

_That you finally fall in love_

_If today was your last day_

Mark watched as Roger finished the song. It was good. It was really good. But the lyrics made Mark's heart hurt. _If today was your last day_. The crowd was cheering, but they didn't understand. Those lyrics weren't just thrown together because they sounded sincere; they were very real to Roger. What if today was his last day? The disease that ran through his friend's body made the possibility seem all too real, and he did his best not to think about it. He couldn't.

Mark shook himself of those thoughts as Roger reached for the microphone, speaking to the crowd one last time. "Thank you all so much for hanging out with us tonight. We had a blast, and we hope you did, too." There were loud cheers from the people on the dance floor. Some had their hands up in the air, and some were whistling or clapping, but everybody was making noise. "Thanks guys, you've been awesome!" Roger stepped back, and he and his band waved to the crowd before walking off the stage.

The noise finally died down after a while, though an excited buzz remained in the room, and the speakers started pumping music from a recording so that people could dance. Some did, though many people headed towards a table to sit down or towards the bar for a drink.

Mark turned towards his friends, and they clustered together so that they could hear each other over the music.

"That was great!" Maureen yelled in a happy voice.

"Yeah, let's go find him," Mimi said, making her way across the club. The others followed her and they stopped outside the door that led backstage. "Do we just wait here?" she asked.

Collins nodded. "Yeah, we'll wait until he comes to find us." He leaned against the wall casually. "Man, they really rocked it tonight," he said, and there was a measure of pride in his voice.

Mark smiled. "I know. His lyrics were awesome."

"I can't believe how many songs he wrote in a just a year," Maureen added. "He's obviously been inspired."

"It was good to see this side of him," Joanne said. "I've never seen him so comfortable being in front of people before."

Mark laughed. "Yeah. He's not as shy as he seemed when you first met him. He was just so withdrawn that he barely talked to anyone," Mark told her. "He was afraid to let people in." Joanne nodded in understanding. They all realized that Roger had been struggling when they'd been united that Christmas, but he seemed to finally be moving past that.

Just then, the stage door opened and Cameron, the bass player, peeked out. "Hey guys!" he greeted warmly. "Roger's just putting his guitar away, but you can come back and meet him if you want."

They nodded, following the man backstage and congratulating him on a great performance. He thanked them, leading them to a back room and opening the door. "Come on in," he said.

It was a fairly large room with a couch and a couple chairs, which Jeff and Jason were occupying. There was a coffee table in the center, and off to the side, Roger was packing up the extra amplifier that they hadn't taken on stage. He looked up as the door opened and grinned when he saw them, abandoning the equipment and taking a step in their direction.

"Roger!" Mimi broke into a run, heading towards him and jumping into his arms, kissing him on the lips. She was smiling as he put her down. "Great job!" she said, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you," he said, smiling widely.

Maureen and Joanne each hugged him and told him what a great job he'd done before turning to converse with the other members of the band. Mimi kissed Roger once more before joining the women.

Collins approached Roger, pulling him into a hug. "You mentioned Angel," Mark heard Collins say quietly. "In your second song."

Roger nodded, his arms wrapped around his friend. "I did," he confirmed. "She was special, Thomas. And she embodied the type of personality that I wanted that song to be about."

Collins pulled his friend tighter for a minute, turning his lips toward Roger's ear. "Thank you," he said sincerely, and Mark knew that it meant a lot to him to know that Angel had made such an impact on Roger's life as well as his own.

Roger nodded, pulling away from the hug, and turned to Mark. They stared at each other until finally, Roger smiled and Mark let out a laugh.

He threw his arms around his best friend, not caring that he was soaked in sweat. He slapped him on the back and Roger returned the embrace. "I'm proud of you, Rog," Mark whispered into the musician's ear, his chin on Roger's shoulder.

"Thanks for being there," Roger responded. "It means a lot."

They stepped apart just as a man walked through the door. "Hello!" He greeted them with a smile. "I'm Dennis Cramer, the manager of this club." He held out a large hand for Roger to shake.

"I just wanted to say thank you for a wonderful show tonight. You guys had the crowd going wild!" Mark looked at the other members of the band. They were smiling.

"Anyway, we've already gotten requests to have you back. So if you're willing, we'd love for you to do another show next week." He said this hopefully, as if he was afraid that The Well Hungarians would refuse.

Roger froze, mouth halfway open. He looked at Jason, Jeff, and Cam, who were in similar positions. "Are you kidding?" he finally managed. "We'd love to!"

Dennis' hands rose slightly in celebration. "Perfect!" he exclaimed. "We'll be in touch." He shook Roger's hand again before smiling and leaving the room.

Roger faced his friends, an overwhelmed look spreading across his features. "Holy shit," he mumbled, and they all laughed lightly.

"This is what stardom is like, Roger," Collins teased, throwing an arm over the man's shoulder. "Better get used to it."

**And there ya go! The songs used are as follows:**

**1. We Weren't Born To Follow- Bon Jovi**

**2. It's My Life- Bon Jovi**

**3. Thank You For Loving Me- Bon Jovi**

**4. If Today Was Your Last Day- Nickelback**

**I kind of see Roger as a Bon Jovi-ish kind of musician, so I went with it! Please shoot me a review if you have a little time! **


	7. Chapter 7

******And here comes a little bit of drama for our boys!**  


**Chapter 7**

February 23, 1992

Mark's day was going horribly. And not in the 'It's-really-not-that-bad-but-only-feels-like-it' kind of way, either. It was really not going well at all. And the worst part was that it was only Monday.

First, his bike blew a tire on his way to work when he pedaled over a nail that had been hiding innocently on the street. The front tire popped, causing Mark to tip forward over his handlebars and land face first on the cement. He had a large scrape on his cheek and his nose to show for it.

He'd gotten to work at 8:20, twenty minutes late, and been bitched at by his co-workers, who had to cover for him in the morning rush. Mark wasn't overly apologetic. They'd been late plenty of times.

He'd hustled off to the bathroom to clean the blood and dirt off of his face only to find a large tear in the front of his work shirt. He'd been so frazzled earlier that he hadn't noticed it, but he suspected that he caught it on his handlebars as he tumbled. He knew he'd have to pay for another one, as they were required attire for employees.

A few minutes later, he'd been standing behind a repair man who was fixing one of the espresso machines. The man had been pulling on a hose that wouldn't come free, and he finally gave it a mighty tug. The hose suddenly came loose, and the man's elbow was sent flying backwards, directly into Mark's bottom lip. He felt the swelling almost immediately.

Then, striding across the shop to replenish the kiosk of straws and packets of sugar, Mark had slipped in a puddle of liquid, landing flat on his back and sending the supplies that he was holding flying into the air. He had no idea where the puddle had come from, but he imagined that a customer had probably spilled something and neglected to clean it up. He'd cleaned up the supplies with his co-workers and half of the customers laughing at him._ Fuck all of you_, he'd thought.

Throughout the morning, three separate people had approached Mark, insisting that their orders were wrong and that he make them a new drink. He hadn't been responsible for any of them to begin with, and he was frustrated that they didn't go bother whomever had screwed up in the first place. He'd dutifully fixed their orders, not getting a single "Thank you," for his trouble.

Next, in the process of putting a lid on a drink, Mark had turned around and crashed into one of his co-workers, proceeding to spill hot coffee down the front of his apron and all over his bare arms. Twice. He'd again disappeared to the bathroom after each incident, running cold water over his burned skin in an effort to relieve the pain.

And that had all happened before noon.

Mark was currently returning from the back room with a fresh stack of plastic cups, which he set on the counter next to the machines. The activity in the shop had died down, leaving just a few people sitting at the tables. He hoped that his afternoon would be less eventful. He didn't know how much more he could take.

A woman approached the counter, appearing to be in her early thirties or so.

"What can I get for you?" Mark asked politely.

"Hi, yeah, I'd like an extra hot iced tea," she said, reaching into her purse for her wallet.

Mark stared at her. _Is this a joke?_ He wondered.

"So, you just want a hot tea," he clarified.

"Yes, the iced kind."

Mark continued staring, not making a move to ring her up. "Ma'am, there is no such thing as a hot iced tea. It's either hot or cold. That's it," he explained. His voice came out more aggressively than he'd hoped.

She looked at him as if he was the confused one. "I know, I want it hot," she answered in an annoyed tone. "An extra hot iced tea."

_What's your IQ? _Mark wanted to ask. This was unbelievable. His frustration with everything that had happened that morning was returning, and he took a deep breath to stay calm. Slowly he said, "Ma'am, I don't think you understand. Iced tea isn't a specific kind of tea. It's just tea that's cold." He was trying to remain polite, but it was incredibly difficult. "It can be any flavor."

She stared at him, finally comprehending the problem. "Oh. What flavor is it normally? That's the one I want, but I want it hot."

"You'll have to choose one, Ma'am, I'm not sure what kind you normally have."

She paused. "I never order tea. I don't know what kind I've had before."

_No shit,_ Mark thought to himself. "Look, the flavors are right here, you can choose whatever you'd like." He pushed a box towards her that displayed a sample of each tea bag.

The woman looked at them for a moment, but then she pursed her lips as if in thought. "Actually," she said, "I think I'll just have a mocha."

Mark resisted the urge to throw something. "Okay, good," he mumbled, punching the buttons on the register to calculate her price. Without thinking, he began to ask a question. "And did you want that…" He froze, highly regretting his decision, but he was already committed to finishing the sentence. "Did you want that iced or hot?"

She paused in thought. "Hmmm, I've never had an iced mocha before…" Mark waited for her to give him an answer, and just then he heard someone's voice behind him.

"I'll finish up here." Brandon, Mark's boss, had been standing off to the side during the entire exchange, and he must have realized that Mark was almost at his breaking point. He tapped Mark on the shoulder gently, nudging him aside. "I need more cups. Can you go find some?"

Mark looked at the large stack of cups he had just brought out. "Yeah, no problem," he said in relief. As he turned his back on the woman, he made eye contact with Brandon. "You're a saint," he mouthed silently, heading towards the employee's room.

He collapsed onto the uncomfortable couch, dropping his head against the backrest with a _thunk_. He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of, at the moment, being safe from anymore misfortune.

Mark opened his eyes a minute later when Brandon walked in and took a seat next to him. He leaned back, rubbing his face with his palms. "Meeting people like that makes me seriously worry about the future of this world," he said. He dropped his hands and rolled his head sideways to look at Mark.

Mark let out a little snort of agreement. He'd always liked Brandon. He was an easygoing guy, and he was the only one who Mark really got along with. Truthfully, he reminded him a lot of Roger. And even though Brandon was his boss, he'd never made Mark feel inferior. In fact, he'd always been much kinder to him than he was to most of the other employees, especially since Mark was often the one picking up everybody else's slack. He'd been the only sympathetic one when he was late this morning, as well as the only one to offer him help cleaning up the mess he'd made with the straws. When he had spilled the coffee on himself, Brandon had checked on him to make sure his burns were only minor.

Mark reached up to scratch his cheek, only to wince as he brushed the raw scrape from his encounter with the concrete.

Brandon gazed at him. "So, what did you do today to piss of the Big Man Upstairs?" he questioned lightly.

He snorted. "Hell if I know. I'm just waiting to get struck by lightning or something. That'll really top off my day."

Brandon leaned forward and patted him lightly on the shoulder before standing up. "Why don't you head home?" He suggested.

Mark looked at him, trying not to let the hope show on his face. "Seriously?"

Brandon nodded. "Yeah, it might be better for all of us if you just get out of here. Maybe lock yourself in a nice, quiet, safe room for a couple days." He grinned. "Just until the bad luck streak passes."

Mark gave a tiny smile. "Yeah, I think I will," he said. "Thanks." He got up and walked to the back of the room, heading for his bag.

"No problem. See you," Brandon said, exiting the room, but it was only a second before his head peeked back around the corner. "Oh, Mark?"

He looked up. "Yeah?"

Brandon pursed his lips, appearing to be deep in thought, and then glanced at him. "I'd avoid taking the bus home. Or a cab. You know, you should probably just steer clear of traffic altogether, with the way things are going." He kept his face straight, but Mark knew what he was doing. "I suggest walking, maybe taking the back roads. But avoid dark alleys…" His face broke out into a taunting smirk.

Mark glared. "You're not funny," he said, but he ended up smiling anyway. He appreciated that Brandon was trying to lighten up his mood.

Brandon gave a final, "Later, Mark," and then disappeared around the corner to return to work.

Mark picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder before heading towards the exit.

* * *

Roger looked up as Mark opened the door to the loft and stomped inside, throwing his useless bike against the wall. He'd carried the thing all the way home. As he did, he'd replayed his day over in his mind. He was now twice as pissed off as he'd been before.

He shut the door loudly and dropped his bag carelessly onto the table, not saying a word to Roger. He wasn't in much of a mood to talk. He felt Roger's eyes on him as he walked to the kitchen, probably curious as to how he got scraped up.

"Heeeeeyyyy," the musician said cautiously, drawing the word out as if unsure whether it was acceptable to speak to him. He was sitting on the couch, and he had paused in the process of putting a new set of strings on his acoustic guitar when Mark made his entrance.

Mark grunted in response.

"How's your day going?" Roger asked in a light tone, trying to make conversation.

He thought about how to respond to that question as he opened a cupboard and reached in for a glass. Halfway through pulling one out, the rim of the glass knocked the edge of the cupboard, tumbling out of his grip. It hit the hardwood floor, shattering apart with a crash.

He paused, staring at the tiny shards and looked at Roger, an angry frown on his face. "Yeah, that about sums it up," he answered in annoyance, and Roger's eyebrows rose.

Mark sighed, bending down and reaching out his hand to pick up the pieces, but Roger's voice stopped him.

"Hey, what are you doing?" He got up from the couch and walked over towards the kitchen, grabbing a couple dish towels off the counter. "You're going to cut yourself." Mark reached out as Roger handed him one towel and kept the other, bending down next to him. He wrapped the towel around his hand and started sweeping the glass into a pile, and Mark followed suit.

They finally got it all into a pile, and they both stood up, staring down at their work.

They were stumped. They didn't have a broom or a dust pan or any way to get the glass off the floor and into the trash. They'd never thought it overly important to invest in one.

Roger's eyebrows were furrowed in thought, and then his face suddenly lit up. He turned around and headed into his room before reappearing a moment later holding a role of duct tape.

Roger picked at the edge and pulled off a piece of tape. He turned it over so the sticky side was facing down and firmly pressed it into the pile of glass, careful not to cut himself. He slowly lifted up the tape, which was now covered in the small shards. Mark reached under the sink, grabbing the garbage can and placing it next to his roommate. Roger dropped the tape inside, repeating the process a few more times until he was satisfied that the floor was clean.

Mark replaced the trash can and Roger walked back to the couch, tossing the tape into his room on the way. Mark took a seat, watching his friend begin to work on his guitar again.

Roger glanced up from his task. "So," he said, "what happened to your face?" There was concern in his gaze.

"Fell off my bike."

Roger nodded. "Okay. And what happened to your bike?" he asked, eyes wandering over to the shredded tire.

"Hit a nail."

Roger stared at him, obviously noting his short responses, and his brow furrowed in confusion. "Talk to me, Mark. What's going on?"

And Mark exploded, telling him the whole story. He talked about the bike, the shirt, the puddle, the lip, the ungrateful customers, the burns, and finally he talked about the woman who had no common sense. He let his anger out in frustrated hand motions, finally feeling like there was no longer a reason to hold it in. He felt like it was probably unfair of him to suddenly unleash all of this, but Roger just listened silently, and Mark appreciated it. He wanted to just rant for a few minutes uninterrupted and get everything out.

When he was done, Roger stared at him, eyes wide and mouth open slightly. "She wanted a hot iced tea?" He raised an eyebrow. "How does that make even a little bit of sense?"

Mark shook his head with a sigh. "I don't know."

Roger let out a little snort of disbelief. His face took on a look of serious consideration before he said, "So, how long do you think this bad luck thing is going to last? 'Cause, you know, I can stay with Mimi until the whole thing blows over…"

He laughed as Mark reached over and nailed him in the shoulder with a fist. "I'm kidding, Mark," he said defensively, sobering up quickly. "I'm sorry that you had a rough day. I feel for you, man."

Mark nodded. "Good." He stood up and headed towards the kitchen. He was still thirsty, as he'd never actually gotten the water that he'd planned on earlier.

Roger watched him walk away. "Hey, can you get me a glass of ice water, no ice?"

Mark froze and then slowly turned around, glaring dangerously at his friend. "What?"

Roger looked at him with an expressionless face. "Ice water, no ice. Can you get me some?"

Mark wanted so badly to remain angry. He wanted to continue acting like he didn't find the remark funny. But he couldn't. This was Roger's way of cheering him up.

He grinned reluctantly and let out a short chuckle. "Don't fucking start with me, Roger," he said with a good-natured warning in his tone and resumed his path towards the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roger smirk.

Again, he opened the cupboard, this time successfully removing two glasses and holding them under the tap.

As he flicked the handle of the sink into the 'off' position, the phone rang. As usual, Mark ignored it and the single ring led directly into the answering machine.

"Speeeeeeaaaaakkkkkk."

He picked up the glasses and was walking back towards the couch when a frantic voice came from the machine. "Mark?" His mother's voice was anxious. "Mark? Please pick up. It's your dad, Sweetie. He's had a heart attack."

Mark froze, barely even realizing it as the glasses slipped from his limp fingers, exploding into pieces at his feet.

* * *

Mark wasn't sure how long he stood there. It seemed as though time froze around him, leaving him to contemplate his thoughts. But suddenly, he heard his mother's voice again, and he knew it had only been a matter of seconds.

"Mark, please call me when you get this," she pleaded over the machine, and the line went dead.

He suddenly regained his ability to move, and he numbly walked over to the counter, picking up a dish towel. Roger was staring at him.

Mark bent down, beginning to sweep the glass into another pile. The towel became soaked with water almost immediately.

"Mark."

He heard Roger say his name, but he continued sweeping the glass.

"Mark." There it was again. He didn't respond. He was focused on his chore. He needed to clean up this glass, or someone would get hurt. He couldn't let Roger cut himself.

He felt a pair of strong hands land on his shoulders, and a face appeared in his line of sight, staring directly into his eyes.

"Mark," Roger said for a third time, and he finally paused in his task, meeting his friend's gaze. Roger was kneeling on the wet floor, looking at him with worry. Softly, he said, "I've got this, okay?" He gently took the dripping towel from Mark's hand. Mark didn't protest. His fingers dropped limply to his side and he stared at the shards on the floor. He could feel water seeping into his shoes from the large puddle.

He felt Roger's hand move from his shoulder to the side of his neck, and his head was forced to the side so that he was staring into Roger's face. "Mark, go call your mom." His voice was firm, but his green eyes were gentle.

Mark swallowed. He felt as though he had a lump in his throat that he couldn't get rid of. He finally nodded, slowly standing up and heading towards the phone. Roger watched him for a minute before wrapping the towel around his hand and turning to the mess.

He picked up the phone with a shaking hand, pausing before holding it up to his ear. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest as he slowly dialed his mother's number.

It only rang once.

"Hello?" Her voice was high pitched and worried. "Mark?" she asked hopefully.

He swallowed again. "Yeah, Mom, it's me."

She let out a breath of air. "Oh, thank God, Mark!" Her voice cracked, and Mark could immediately tell that she had been crying.

"Mom, how's Dad?"

She sniffled into the receiver. "He's been checked into the hospital, Sweetie. They're worried about the damage that his heart sustained."

Mark's thoughts were running wild. "Damage?" he repeated.

She sniffled again. "Yes. Apparently it's not pumping blood like it should be."

He was quiet for a minute. "So, what does this mean?" he asked, his voice soft. "Is he going to be okay?"

He waited for a response, but nothing came. Instead, he heard his mom letting out small sobs into the receiver.

"I don't know, Mark," she finally said. "I don't know. I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out."

"Wait!" he said quickly, worried that she was going to hang up on him. He swallowed before speaking his next sentence firmly. "I'm coming home. I'll be there tomorrow."

"You'll come home? Really?" Her voice was so hopeful.

"Yeah, of course I'm coming."

She let out a small sob, but Mark could hear the relief in her voice. She sounded happy. "Oh, Mark, thank you! If I'm not home when you get here, just wait for me at the house."

"Okay, Mom."

"I love you, Markie," she said, obviously incredibly emotional.

"I love you too, Mom. Bye." He hung up the phone and planted his elbows on the counter, dropping his face into his hands.

He couldn't believe it. His dad had always been a pretty healthy guy. How could he have had a heart attack?

Mark sensed rather than saw Roger approach him.

"So what's the news?" Roger questioned gently, leaning against the counter next to him.

Mark raised his head with a sigh. "Mom didn't know much, but he's in the hospital right now. They think he might have heart damage." He ran his hands through his short hair and straightened his glasses nervously.

Roger shook his head, his eyes wide. "God, Mark… I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

"You're going home tomorrow?"

Mark nodded. "I want to see him." He felt badly. It had been years now since he'd visited his parents. Why hadn't he visited? He should have. _Stop acting like he's dying_, Mark told himself angrily. He's not dying._ Not yet anyway…_

"I'll come with you."

Mark wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"

"I'll come with you," Roger said again. "I mean, if you want me to."

Mark stared at him. Roger, the man who'd run from Scarsdale as soon as he'd finished school, was offering to go back? Mark shook his head. "No, you don't have to," he said, trying to make it sound convincing. In all honesty, he'd love to have his friend come with him. He didn't know what condition he'd find his dad in when he got there, and that kind of stuff was always easier with a trusted friend close by. But he didn't want Roger to feel like he had to. Mark was a big boy. He could go by himself.

Roger shrugged. "I know," he acknowledged. "But I want to." He lightly nudged Mark with his elbow, perhaps offering the contact to show his support.

Mark studied Roger's face for a minute. His eyes were sincere. "It would be great if you came," he admitted. Then a thought ran through his head. "But you have your show on Friday, and I don't know if I'll be back by then." Dennis Cramer had offered The Well Hungarians a third gig, and Roger had the chance to earn himself a permanent spot if the crowd's response continued to be positive.

Roger shrugged again. "I'll cancel if it comes to that," he said.

"You can't cancel your show, Roger!" Mark didn't mean to raise his voice, but he was so upset with everything. He wouldn't let his friend pass up an opportunity to seal a deal with the club just for him.

Roger was staring at him. "Mark, take a breath, okay? They can't get mad at me for having a family emergency."

A jolt of surprise went through Mark at that last comment. It really shouldn't have shocked him. Roger had been his best friend for forever. He'd practically grown up in his house. But the fact that he truly considered even Mark's dad to be family struck something deep within him at that moment, and he subtly blinked away the moisture in his eyes.

Roger grabbed Mark's shoulder, pulling him into his side in a friendly embrace. "Hey," he said gently, "as far as we know, he just needs some rest and he'll be good as new."

Mark closed his eyes, leaning into the support and allowing himself to find comfort in the knowledge that Roger was going to be there for him. "I hope so, Rog. I hope so."

**Your thoughts? Let me know :)**


	8. Chapter 8

******Thank you to those of you who have sent me a review! It means a lot! Here's a pretty long chapter heading your way. Hopefully this will delve a little deeper into Mark's reasons behind his separation from his parents. Enjoy :)**  


**Chapter 8**

February 24, 1992

Mark woke the next morning with a feeling of dread weighing him down. He turned himself over, pressing his face into the pillow with a groan. He wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep and hope that everything had been a dream, but he wasn't that naïve. His father really did have a heart attack, and Mark really was leaving for home today. And that scared the hell out of him.

He'd been 18 when he moved to New York City, and he hadn't been back to Scarsdale since then. His parents had been out to see him a few times in the first couple of years after he'd moved, but their visits had become less frequent until they stopped altogether. He hadn't actually seen them in about five years now, and generally Mark avoided contacting them. It wasn't that he didn't love them, because he did. They'd been good to him as he grew up, but he'd just felt so smothered. They'd been assertive when it came to what to do with his future, and he'd been told many times that he should look into becoming a doctor, or that he should at least go to school and get a degree. Mark had laughed at that. He had no desire to do anything of the sort. He wanted to write screenplays and direct films, and that's all he would settle for. He knew that his parents only wanted the best for him, but he'd felt like he needed to be allowed to decide for himself what that was. So, after graduation, he'd taken off with Roger.

Mark sighed deeply and managed to push himself into a sitting position. He felt for his glasses on the nightstand and put them on, grabbing his watch as well and giving it a glance. 8:47 A.M. He and Roger had decided that they'd take the bus to Scarsdale, which left at 10:00. It was time to get up.

Reluctantly throwing back the covers, Mark bent down to grab a shirt and slid it on. He headed towards his bedroom door, not caring that his legs were covered by only boxers.

He walked out into the cold loft and he was greeted by Mimi's smile as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Mark noticed that she looked at him a little bit too long, and he figured that she was probably trying to decide what to say. She apparently gave up because she put down her coffee mug and walked over to him, her arms wide.

Mark leaned down into her embrace, and she rubbed his back gently. "I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "Roger told me what happened. I think it's nice that you're going home to see your dad." She gave a sad smile.

He nodded, sighing. "Yeah." He didn't really have anything else to say on the matter, so he looked away and changed the subject. "Where's Roger?" He asked as he poured his own cup of coffee.

"Still sleeping."

Mark looked at his watch again. It was 8:50, and they needed to leave the loft in less than an hour to make the bus. He knew that Roger didn't exactly move at lightning speed in the mornings, so he set down his coffee and walked towards his friend's room.

He opened the door slowly and peeked inside. Roger was definitely asleep. He was laying on his back, completely still except for his deep breathing.

He strolled in the rest of the way and grabbed a pillow off of Mimi's side of the bed. He lifted it over his head and forcefully brought it down, directly into Roger's face.

Roger jerked awake with a start and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at Mark through blurry eyes.

He stared back innocently. "Time to get up," he said before dropping the pillow on the floor and exiting the room. He heard Roger groan as he left.

He walked back into the kitchen to see that Mimi had started scrambling some eggs. Taking a seat at the table, he picked up an old newspaper in an attempt to keep his mind off of his trip home.

It was only a few minutes until Roger appeared, his hair mussed up in unruly spikes. He pulled out a chair next to Mark and collapsed into it, planting his elbow on the table and leaning his head on his hand. He greeted them both with a lazy, "Mornin'."

Mimi approached, setting a plate of eggs in front of each of them and taking a seat with her own.

"Thanks, Meems," Mark said.

They ate silently until Mimi got a thoughtful look on her face. She turned to Roger. "Have you packed yet?" She asked.

Roger paused guiltily, fork halfway to his mouth. "Ummm, no," he admitted.

Mark snorted. "We're leaving in 40 minutes," he reminded.

"It won't take me that long." Roger shrugged and returned to his food.

Mimi was looking at him with exasperation. "Roger, go pack or you're going to forget something important."

He looked back at her with an annoyed expression. "Fine," he said with a pout, shoving the last of his eggs into his mouth and then standing up and walking to his room.

Mimi looked at Mark, shaking her head at Roger's childlike behavior. His mouth twitched just slightly. Roger had always been a procrastinator.

He finished his food and thanked Mimi again before walking to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He held on to his toothbrush and carried it to his room, sliding it into the side pocket of his duffel bag. His jeans were cold as he picked them up off the floor and slipped them on over his boxers.

Mark threw his bag onto his bed and sat down next to it, laying back with his arms behind his head. He sighed deeply. It seemed like he'd been doing a lot of sighing lately.

He was thinking about giving his mom a quick call to see if there was any news about his father, but decided against it. She said she'd call once she knew something. It would only be a few hours on the bus before he was there, anyway. Maybe it would be better to just wait. _Yeah, I'll just wait_.

He was feeling so many different things at the moment, and they all mashed together in a jumbled mess of emotion that made it hard to decipher them from one another.

The one that he felt most prominently was worry. Despite how he'd acted when he was younger, he loved his father, and he was worried about his well-being. But there was more to his emotions.

He felt something else. Something that hadn't left him alone since he'd gotten the phone call the night before. Why couldn't he identify it? What was it?

_Guilt_, a little voice answered him.

That was it, he realized. Mark had been feeling so guilty ever since learning about his father's heart attack. He felt like he should have been there to do something- to at least show support. But he wasn't. He had been a couple hundred miles away, whining about his own misfortunes while his dad was checked into the hospital.

And the fact that he literally hadn't seen the man in years was eating away at him. What if his dad had actually died? What if his heart had stopped, and the last time he had seen him had been years ago? _Why didn't I visit? I should have visited…_

Mark was upset with himself. He'd been so wrapped up in his own world since he'd moved away from Scarsdale that he had forgotten to show his parents how much he appreciated them. Sure, he avoided his mom's calls, but only because he didn't want to disappoint her. He didn't want to answer the phone only to tell her that no, he still didn't have a well-paying job, yes, he was living without heat, and oh yeah, marriage to a nice Jewish girl wasn't really in the cards right now. Or ever, at this rate.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the thoughts that had been nagging at him. Right now, he needed to focus on motivating himself to face his fears and get on the bus that would take him home. He sat up, glancing at his watch and raising an eyebrow when he realized it was already 9:25. He stood, stretching his shoulders after having them in an odd position for so long, and walked into the living room.

Roger was just walking in as well, dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and his acoustic guitar hung in a case over his shoulder. That was Roger. He never went anywhere without a guitar. He threw his duffel bag onto the couch, and Mimi walked over to it.

"Did you pack some extra cash, in case you need it?" She asked worriedly. "I have some, if you don't."

Roger gave her a look. "I have some," he answered.

She nodded. "And what about your AZT? Do you have that?" She reached out towards his bag as if to check for herself, but Roger put a hand over the zipper, an amused expression on his face.

"Meems, I have it," he said, smiling. "And before you ask, yes, I packed clean underwear."

Mark watched as she gave a guilty little grin. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just worry about you. Both of you," she said, turning to look at Mark.

Mark nodded, and Roger pulled Mimi into a hug. "We'll only be gone for a little while," he assured her. "And we'll look out for each other." Roger caught his eye. "We always do."

Mimi hugged him back. "I know." She glanced at her watch. "Damn, I need to get to work."

Roger nodded. "Ok. I love you," he said, wrapping her in another hug. "See you soon."

She smiled. "I love you, too." She gave him a kiss and then stepped back, turning to Mark. "Mark," she said, pulling him into a hug, "I hope your dad feels better quickly. I'm praying for him." Mark was touched by her thoughtfulness.

"Thank you," he replied, hoping she heard the sincerity in his voice.

She kissed his cheek, avoiding the scab from his spill the day before and pulled back, leaving the loft with a small wave.

They watched her leave, and as soon as she was gone, Roger made a determined break for his room.

Mark stared after him with a raised eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Roger glanced back, an embarrassed look on his face. "I actually forgot to pack clean underwear."

Despite his dark mood, Mark couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

It was just after 2:00 when they approached the familiar yellow house. Mark stopped walking when they reached the driveway, taking a long look at the place. It looked exactly the same. The window to his room was on the second floor, just above the roof, and he glanced at it. He'd snuck out of that window so many times when he was young.

"Home, sweet home," he said, sighing heavily. Roger halted next to him, and Mark noticed his stare. "It's been a long time," Mark said in explanation. It had been eight years since he'd been here.

Roger nodded in understanding. "I know." He gave Mark an encouraging slap on the back. "Come on, let's see if your mom's home."

"Okay." He forced himself to lead the way to the front door, pausing only briefly before reaching out and turning the handle. "Mom?" he called. "It's me."

"Mark?" He heard her voice before he saw her, but suddenly she came zipping around the corner of the hallway. "Mark!" She ran to him, her face covered by a huge grin and her eyes shining brightly. He almost toppled over as she grabbed him in a fierce hug. "I'm so glad you're home."

Mark dropped his duffel bag and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. "It's good to see you, Mom." He kissed her head gently. It was strange. He felt so big compared to her. He didn't remember her being this small, but the five years of separation had changed his perspective.

"I've missed you, Markie," she said, and though her smile was still there, her voice was shaking with emotion. He felt the guilt that had been eating at him resurface.

"I know. I'm sorry that I haven't been around."

She looked at him with tears in her eyes before sniffling and giving a little smile. "Well, you're here now," she said, brushing the front of his shirt where her wet eyes had been. "And look at you! So handsome!" She put a hand on his cheek, smiling through her tears. "What happened?" She gently traced the scrape that he'd gotten from the cement the day before.

"I fell off my bike," he muttered.

"Ouch," she sympathized, hugging him tightly once more. "I'm just glad you're here," she said again, and Mark's heart clenched painfully. She was so forgiving. He had pretty much dropped off the radar for years, and yet, she was forgiving him without a second thought.

He smiled back at her and nodded, releasing her from his grasp. As she stepped back, she stared at something past his shoulder before her face broke out in another grin.

"Oh! Is that Roger?" she asked with surprise, and the man peeked his head through the doorway, a warm smile on his face. He'd been standing respectfully on the front porch during Mark's reunion with his mother. "Come in, dear, don't be shy!"

Mark stepped aside, allowing his friend to enter the house. His mom pulled Roger into a tight embrace as well. "It's so good to see you!" she said cheerfully.

Roger smiled. "It's good to see you, too, Mary."

She stared at both of them for a moment before wiping the tears running down her cheeks, her face wrinkled with a smile. She sniffled before laughing a little bit. "I'm sorry," she said with embarrassment. "I just… It's been so long since I've seen you," she said, looking at Mark. "You boys are so grown up now," she gushed, looking back and forth between them. "And with everything going on, my emotions are getting the better of me."

The joy of the happy reunion faded. Mark swallowed, working up enough courage to ask the next question. "How's Dad? Have you found anything out yet?"

She shook her head sadly. "Not much. They're still worried about his heart function, so they want to monitor him for a few days at least, and see how things go." Mark hated seeing the worry in her eyes. "I've been there with him all morning, but he's been asleep. I just came home to meet you." Mark sighed, nodding. His mom looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said.

He was surprised. _She's _sorry? _No, I should be the sorry one… I'm sorry I wasn't here._

"I'd really like to see him," he admitted.

Her eyes lit up. "Of course! We'll go right now! Let me just go get my keys." She spun around, heading towards the kitchen.

Mark turned to his best friend, who had been fairly quiet. He suspected that the man was a little bit unsure of what to do with himself. "Will you come with us?" He needed Roger to be there.

"Of course."

Mark nodded, satisfied.

His mom returned, her car keys dangling from her hand. "Why don't you boys just drop those bags right there?" She pointed to the floor. "We'll pick them up later."

Mark kicked his bag out of the center of the hallway and Roger dropped his as well, sliding his guitar off of his shoulder and leaning it against the wall.

"Ready?"

Mark nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

They stepped out of the car in the hospital parking lot about 15 minutes later, and Mark's stomach was doing backflips. He was nervous to see his father's condition.

His mom led them through the sliding front doors and into the large lobby. "He's on the third floor," she said, heading towards the elevator, and they followed her closely.

Mark hated hospitals. The look of them, the smell of them, the general mood surrounding them—he hated it all. The last time he'd been to one had been to visit Angel before she died, and that fact was hitting him hard. He glanced at Roger.

His friend was walking quietly next to him, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His eyes were cast downwards at the floor, avoiding looking at the stark whiteness of the halls. Mark imagined that Roger was probably feeling similarly to him at the moment.

They rode the elevator up to the cardiac ward and exited, walking down another long hallway before slowly coming to a stop in front of a room. "Here it is," his mom said. She reached for the handle, gently asking, "Are you boys coming?" when they made no move to follow.

Mark looked down at his shoes, trying to buy himself a moment. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. Raising his head, he met Roger's eyes.

Roger gave a little nod of encouragement. "Let's go see your dad," he said, giving Mark a small push towards the door.

Mark let himself be guided as his mom opened the door and stepped through. He followed close behind her, eyes drawn to the simple bed placed in the center. His steps were small and wary, and it took him a while to finally approach the man lying there. He noticed that Roger hung back, closing the door behind him and leaning against it.

The man looked older than Mark remembered. His eyes were closed, and his face was wrinkled in ways that it hadn't been before. He stared. It had been so long since he'd seen that face. The beeping heart monitor caught his attention, and he wondered briefly if it was beeping at a regular rhythm.

He followed his mom to the bed, standing behind her as she reached out a small hand to shake his dad's shoulder. "James," she whispered, testing to see if he was awake.

His brow furrowed, eyes opening slowly as he met his wife's gaze. She smiled brightly, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze.

"You're awake!" She said with joy, and he gave her a tired smile.

His voice was scratchy when he spoke. "It would seem that way, yes."

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I was worried about you." Her eyes were tearing up again. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore. Tired. Ready to go home," he admitted.

She nodded sympathetically. "Look who's here, Jimmy." She stepped aside, revealing Mark's figure to his father.

"Hi, Dad," he said, somewhat awkwardly.

His dad stared, squinting slightly, but then his face broke out into a grin. "Mark! You're home!"

"I'm home," he confirmed, smiling back. He didn't know what he did to deserve this kind of welcome from his father. It wasn't as if he'd made an effort to keep in touch.

"Well, come here, Son, and give me a hug!" His voice seemed stronger, and his face was positively glowing.

Mark shuffled the rest of the way, leaning down and wrapping his arms gently around his father's shoulders. He was afraid to hug him too tightly in case he hurt him, but his father pulled him close, his grip strong and sure.

"It's so good to see you, Mark. I've missed you so much."

"You too, Dad. I'm sorry that I wasn't here. I should have been here."

James Cohen shrugged in dismissal, releasing Mark from his grasp and smiling. "You're here now." He took a glance at the door, double-taking when he realized someone else was standing there. "Who's that?" he questioned, squinting.

Roger took a few steps forward. "Hey there, Jim," he greeted.

Mark's dad gave a snort of laughter. "Roger Davis, is that you?" Roger smiled in acknowledgment. "Come here, Boy!"

Roger strolled over and leaned down into James' warm embrace. "Look at you, causing all this commotion," he teased good-naturedly.

James laughed lightly. "You know me, never a dull moment."

Roger chuckled, and Mark joined in. It was good to see his father joking like this, even if his voice was strained and weaker than he remembered.

A nurse suddenly opened the door, striding in and heading towards the machinery. Her eyes widened when she realized that her patient was awake. "Good afternoon, Mr. Cohen! It's nice to see you awake," she said pleasantly, smiling at the visitors. "How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad, now that I've got myself some company."

She laughed. "Great! Well I'm just going to check these numbers and then I'll be out of here."

"Okay."

She jotted down a variety of digits and then tucked her clipboard away. "You do seem to be doing better today!" she said enthusiastically. "Your doctor should be by later with an update. If you keep improving at this rate, I'd say things are looking pretty good!"

She left the room with a wave, and Mark's heart was a little bit lighter. Mary pulled up a couple of chairs, pushing Mark and Roger into one each, and took a seat on the other side of the bed.

They chatted about anything and everything, catching up on whatever came to mind. It was so much different speaking with his parents in person than it was over the phone. Their sparse phone calls usually only lasted for three or four minutes, but now he was really having a meaningful conversation with them, and Mark realized he missed that.

His mom was telling him about his sister, Cindy, who had stopped by to visit earlier. "Her sons are becoming quite the little mischief makers," she laughed. She looked between Mark and Roger, a twinkle in her eye. "They remind me a lot of you two, actually."

Mark turned to Roger with a raised eyebrow. "Us? Mischief? Never," he said, turning back to his mom and shaking his head in denial.

She laughed harder. "Right. Because you boys were such innocent little children," she corrected herself sarcastically.

"Angels, really," Roger added.

Mark nodded in agreement, his grin wide.

James scoffed. "Angels… more like devils." He yawned, his eyelids drooping.

Mark glanced at his watch, his eyes widening in surprise. It was almost 6:00. They'd been talking for almost four hours.

"You look tired," Mary said, running a hand through her husband's hair.

"It's this damn medication."

She nodded. "You need your rest. I'll take these boys home and leave you alone to get some sleep, but I'll be back later to say goodnight."

"Okay," he said.

Mark stood up, reaching to give his dad a farewell hug. "Bye, Dad. We'll be back to see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Son. Thanks for coming by," he said, and Mark gave a small smile. "Roger, good to see you." He held out a hand, which Roger shook firmly.

"You too, Jim. See you later."

Mary kissed him goodbye and they left the room, Mark's heart slightly lighter than before.

* * *

When they got back to the house, Mark grabbed his and Roger's duffel bags, carrying them upstairs. He threw his into his old room, taking a long look around. It looked exactly the same as it had the day he left, except the bed was now made.

He tossed Roger's bag into the guest room next door and headed back downstairs. Roger was mid-conversation with his mom, and she was laughing at something he told her. She un-wrapped a large dish as she turned on the oven.

"What is that?" Mark asked curiously.

"Lasagna," she responded. She glanced at Mark apologetically. "I'm sorry that I didn't make anything special for dinner tonight, but I'm going to go sit with your father until visiting hours end."

Mark shook his head and took a seat next to Roger at the kitchen table. "No worries, this is perfect."

"Good, I'm putting it in now. It should be ready in about 40 minutes or so. Eat as much as you'd like," she said, smiling. "I'll be back around 8:30," she said, sliding the lasagna into the oven. She picked up her purse and swung it onto her shoulder, then walked over and grabbed the sides of Mark's head, leaning down and planting a kiss on top. "Goodbye," she said. She turned and did the same thing to Roger. "Goodbye," she repeated to him. "Be good."

"Always," Mark said, smiling as she left the room with a wave.

They waited impatiently for the lasagna to be done. It wasn't long after his mom had left that Mark realized they hadn't eaten since breakfast, and he was absolutely starving. He and Roger practically attacked the thing as soon as it came out of the oven, devouring half of it in 15 minutes.

They retired to the living room and turned on the TV, enjoying the fact that they had one for once. They argued about what to watch before finally settling on an old comedy, which turned out to be surprisingly entertaining.

It was just after 8:30 when Mark's mom walked into the living room. She stopped in the archway, looking at them fondly.

Roger was stretched out on one couch, his tall body taking up the entire thing. Mark was in the large comfy lounge chair, his legs up on the footrest and crossed at the ankles. They both swiveled their heads around to greet her as she entered.

"Now this is a picture that I remember seeing many, many times when you boys were younger," she said with a grin, setting her keys on the small coffee table. "You guys really haven't changed a bit."

Mark knew his mom was being sarcastic, but he was struck for a minute by how wrong she was. If only she knew how much the two of them had been through since they'd headed to New York City almost eight years ago—how much they'd changed and matured. But she didn't know, because Mark hadn't told her.

He hadn't told her about the death of Angel. That would have been far too painful. Angel had been special to him, to all of them, and her loss was something that he shared only with his friends back in the East Village. It felt almost wrong to tell his parents about her, because how could he express what she meant to them? He couldn't do her justice. She alone had changed him significantly. She taught him things about love, and about life. Mark had become quite a different person thanks to her.

And then there was Roger. When April had killed herself, Mark hadn't told his parents. And he didn't tell them about Roger's drug addiction and subsequent withdrawal. And he didn't tell them about Roger's HIV. He couldn't tell them, because Roger was practically their second son. It would have hurt them to know that he had been struggling through life.

The truth was that Roger was no longer the mischievous little boy that they'd known. He was an adult who had been through hell and back. It had taken so long for him to learn how to deal with his life, but he'd finally gotten there. And sure, he still showed traces of the mischievous trouble-maker that he'd once been, but it was stifled by the sense of seriousness and the wisdom that he now possessed.

Watching his friend push his way through the pain and darkness that enveloped him in those years had been one of the hardest things Mark had ever done. But it had also forced him to learn responsibility, loyalty, and trust. Everything that he'd seen Roger go through had shaped him as well.

Mark hadn't told his parents about any of it, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't plan to—at least not in the near future. Today he'd come to realize that he wanted them in his life more than they had been, but he still wasn't ready to share these personal stories. They belonged to him and Roger, and for right now, that's where they'd remain.

* * *

It was just past 11:00, and Mark threw his toothbrush back into his duffel bag until he needed it in the morning. He walked over to his window and slid it open as far as it would go, allowing the freezing night air to wash over him. It felt refreshing.

He climbed up onto the windowsill and stepped out onto the roof, then sat down and pulled his knees up to his chest. He grinned a little bit. He and Roger used to sit up here all the time when they were younger. It had driven his mom crazy.

Mark heard a click and turned around, only to see that Roger had opened the window of the guest bedroom. He was wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and when he saw Mark, he laughed. "How did I know you'd be out here?"

Mark shrugged. "Old habits die hard, I guess," he responded.

Roger lifted a leg over the windowsill and joined him on the roof, taking a seat beside him. They looked out over the dark neighborhood, silently enjoying the peaceful stillness.

Roger suddenly spoke up, his breath condensing into a white cloud in the crisp air. "How are you doing?" he asked, glancing at Mark. His voice was casual, but Mark could feel the concern there.

He shrugged. "I'm okay. I'm glad my dad seems to be doing better. It was hard walking into that room." His brow furrowed in thought, trying to understand his own emotions. "I've never seen him like that before, you know? I didn't think I was ready for it."

Roger nodded in understanding. "Yeah. He seems to be doing well, though." He shifted a little bit, getting into a more comfortable position. "It was nice being able to talk to him again. He's a good guy, Mark. Both of your parents are great people."

Mark snorted. "God, I know," he agreed. "I practically abandoned them for eight years and they welcome me back as if nothing happened." He spoke angrily, though he didn't exactly know why.

Roger's eyebrow rose in confusion. "Is that a bad thing? Do you w_ant_ them to be mad?"

"I don't know."

His best friend gave him a look, urging him to continue.

"I just..." he sighed, unsure of what he was trying to say. "They were so happy to see me, Roger." His mind flashed back to the look on his mom's face as she spotted him in the doorway, and the way his dad's eyes lit up in his hospital bed. "I feel like I don't deserve that. I mean, I never came out here to visit. I returned _maybe_ one out of every eight phone calls. I just don't see why they're so excited to have me here."

"Mark, they're your parents, and they love you. They're _going_ to love you no matter what you do."

"Why, though?" Mark suddenly burst. "Why are they so happy? I'm never going to be the person that I know they want me to be, Roger! I'm not going to be a doctor, and I'm not going to marry a Jewish girl and move into a house with a white picket fence. I'm going to stay in New York, making crappy movies until I die." He shook his head, the reasons for his distance from his parents finally pouring out. "Why are they so happy?" he asked again. "They should be disappointed in me. I'm a nobody, and I'm always going to be a nobody."

Mark ended his rant, his cheeks flushing slightly. Roger remained silent for a minute before he spoke.

"Do you think your parents really care what profession you choose?" He didn't respond, so Roger continued. "Neither of them have said a thing about your choice not to go to school since you've gotten home. And that's because they don't care, Mark. They're happy that _you_ are here. You. In all of your degree-less glory." Mark felt Roger's eyes on him, but he wasn't ready to meet them. He heard Roger's voice again. It was quiet, and perhaps a little embarrassed. "And for what it's worth, you're definitely a somebody to me."

Mark finally turned to look at his friend. He knew that it wasn't exactly in Roger's nature to admit something like that.

Roger looked him right in the eyes as he went on. "I'm serious, Mark. You're the somebody that got me through… everything," he admitted. "It may not seem like much to you, but it means a lot to me."

A smile crept onto Mark's face. Roger was right. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a big deal. His parents were happy to see him, and he should just enjoy that fact and move on. And maybe he was a nobody to the world, but to a select few, he was somebody, and that was enough.

**Yeah, yeah, the ending was as cheesy as a daytime soap opera, but you know, sometimes we just need to indulge ourselves! :P**


	9. Chapter 9

**Here's the next one! It gets a little angsty towards the end...**

**Chapter 9**

February 26, 1992

Wednesday passed in much the same way as Tuesday. They went to the hospital before noon with his mom, and they spent the day there talking with his dad. The man was becoming stronger, and his doctors were confident that his heart function was improving at a satisfactory rate. They kept him Wednesday night just to be safe, but it was now Thursday morning, and they were ready to send him home.

Mark walked through the door to the hospital, Roger trailing behind him. He smiled as he saw his dad sitting up in bed and free from the monitors that had once restricted him.

"Hey, Dad. How's it going?"

"Not too bad. I'm finally free!"

Mark laughed. "Yeah, well… no more funny stuff like this, okay? We were worried about you." He sat down on the side of the bed.

"Trust me, I'm not planning on it," James responded.

Mark kicked a chair over to Roger so he could sit down just as Mary Cohen walked through the door, a plastic bag in her hand. She strode over to her husband, setting the bag down next to him. "Here are some clothes," she said. "You can get changed, and then we just need to wait for the discharge papers and we can get you out of here," she finished happily.

"Great," James said, pushing himself up. Mark noticed that he was a little bit slower than normal, though he suspected that was from lying in bed for three days.

He stood, tapping Roger on the shoulder and motioning for him to follow. "We'll head down to the car and bring it around front. Give you some privacy," he offered.

His mom nodded, handing him the keys. "We might be a little while," she warned. "I'm not sure how long it will take for the doctor to come by."

He shrugged. "Take your time."

He headed out the door and into the hallway, Roger falling into step beside him. It was true that he'd wanted to give his dad privacy, but honestly, he also just couldn't take any more of the hospital. He'd spent two days straight there, and he had no desire to stay any longer than necessary. There was something about them that he just didn't like.

They walked down the hall toward the elevator, sliding in just as it was closing. The only other person inside was a young nurse, who smiled as they entered. She'd already pressed the button for the lobby, so Mark leaned back against the railing to wait. The awkward and unavoidable elevator-silence descended instantly, and he pursed his lips as he waited for the door to ding open.

As they arrived on the ground floor, the door opened and the nurse walked out. Mark and Roger followed, heading toward the parking lot. Roger was shaking his head, a disappointed look on his face. "I don't believe you," he said.

Mark was confused. "What?"

"We were just in the elevator with a beautiful girl and you didn't even say hello."

"You didn't either!" He shot back defensively.

"Yeah, but I'm in a happily committed relationship with my _own_ beautiful girl," he reminded, pointing to himself. Mark didn't have any response to that, so he just pouted and kept quiet. Roger snickered a little bit at his attitude. "I'm just saying. If you want to truly get over Maureen, you need to get back out there again."

Mark knew that, but it was easier said than done.

He wasn't going to let Roger have all the fun, though. Smirking, he teased, "Dating advice from Roger Davis? I don't know about that."

Roger grinned, accepting the dig in good humor. "Hey, I have a girlfriend, remember? Obviously I did something right."

Mark snorted. "Yeah, well, if a girl barges into my room and asks me to light her candle, then you'll be the first person I'll come to."

"Touché."

They strolled through the lobby and out the front doors of the hospital. It had been cold and pouring rain all morning, and it hadn't let up in the slightest. They paused on the covered sidewalk.

Roger frowned. "Do you know where your mom parked the car?" He asked, his eyes searching the massive lot. His mom had dropped them off at the entrance and let them go inside while she parked.

"Not a clue," he answered honestly.

"Hit the panic button," Roger suggested. "We'll find it that way."

"Uh, there's no remote. She must have lost it or something." He held up the large key that was used to unlock the car doors as well as start the vehicle.

"Perfect," Roger mumbled sarcastically.

He nodded. "So, right or left?"

Roger shrugged. "Left."

They took off toward the left side of the parking lot, huddling down into their coats to avoid the fat drops of water. It was useless. Neither he nor Roger had hoods, and their hair was plastered to their heads within two minutes, water dripping down their faces.

They walked up and down the aisles, making their way towards the right side of the lot before finally stumbling upon the car. Mark stuck the key in and unlocked the handle before sliding in and shutting the door, waiting for Roger to get in as well. He wiped his face with his hands, trying to get the running water off of him, and took off his wet jacket, throwing it onto the floor in the back. He put the key in the ignition and reached over his shoulder for the seatbelt, buckling in. He'd already turned the key and started the engine when he heard a tap on the passenger's window.

Roger was bent down and glaring at him through the window. "Don't worry about me," he yelled through the glass in annoyance. "I'll just wait out here." To prove his point he repeatedly tugged on the door handle, which was still locked.

Mark snorted out a laugh. "Whoops, sorry," he said, reaching over and unlocking the passenger door. Roger got in, still glaring. There was a trail of water that ran from his hair directly through the center of his forehead and down his nose, a single droplet hanging from the tip. "My bad," Mark said with a smile, but he quickly handed Roger the jacket he had just thrown into the backseat. There was a semi-dry portion of it on the inside. "Here, dry off," he ordered. He didn't want Roger getting sick.

Roger took it, throwing it over his head and rubbing forcefully. When he removed it again, his hair looked a little bit drier, and a whole lot messier. "Thanks." He tossed the jacket into the back again and removed his own soaking one.

Mark turned on the heat, hoping to dry them both off a little bit, and backed up out of the slot, pulling the car around to the front entrance of the hospital.

"There are your parents." Roger pointed towards the covered foyer outside the doors and waved at them in an effort to catch their attention. His mom tapped his dad on the shoulder, pointing back at the car and helping him to stand up.

Roger opened his door and got out as his parents approached, motioning for his dad to take the front seat. He slowly lowered himself into the car and Roger closed the door behind him. Mark pressed the button to unlock the back doors and Roger and his mom climbed in, only slightly damp.

He pulled into the road and glanced into the rearview mirror. He could see his mother looking out the window, a little smile on her lips. He didn't know what she was thinking about, but he knew that he loved seeing her smile.

* * *

Mark pulled into the driveway and they all piled out of the car, watching his dad carefully to make sure that he was doing okay. The doctors had warned them to look for any excessive weakness or pain, and call if they needed to.

As they entered the house, Mark swiftly wiped his feet on the doormat. He remembered that being one of his mom's biggest rules when he was growing up, and the habit had been engrained in him since then.

His mom led his dad to the lounge chair in the living room and Mark and Roger followed, taking seats on the couch.

"That yours, Rog?" his dad asked, pointing at the guitar leaning against the side of the couch. Roger had been playing it the night before, trying to get in a little practice before his show on Friday.

Roger nodded. "Yeah." He reached out and grabbed it by the neck, maneuvering it into his lap. His arm naturally fell into place around the body, hanging down at the elbow to reach the strings.

"Why don't you play something for me?" his dad suggested, getting comfortable in his chair. He added, "Extra points if you sing."

Roger grinned lightly. He carefully slid out the pick that was secured between the strings and positioned it in his fingers, giving the guitar a little strum. It rang out clearly, and he began playing a relaxing acoustic melody, singing along in a soothing tone. It was one that Mark had heard him play before, though he didn't actually know if it was a song that Roger had composed or not. His voice was quiet but clear.

Mark's mom entered the room from the kitchen, standing by the lounge chair as they listened to Roger play. He ended the song with a final flourish, letting the strings ring out until they faded. Mark's parents clapped, praising him.

"You've always had such a wonderful voice," his mom said in a warm tone, and Roger smiled. Mark remembered how his parents would often insist that Roger play something for them when he came over, and Roger would shyly oblige. He had never been as comfortable singing for a small group as he was playing for a large audience. Mark figured it had something to do with the more intimate setting.

"Thank you," he said, setting the guitar down next to him.

Mark suddenly remembered something. "That reminds me," he said. "Roger has a show tomorrow night that we need to be back for. I know it's kind of short notice, but we'll probably head out tomorrow morning." He said this a bit reluctantly. He was actually having a good time visiting with his parents. However, a part of him was ready to get back to life in the East Village. He needed to return to his regular routine.

He saw his mom try to cover up her disappointment. "Of course," she said almost too enthusiastically. "We understand that you boys have things to get back to." She gave him a sad smile. "I'm so glad you made it home for a few days."

"I know, Mom. I'm glad I did, too."

She sighed before trying to lighten the mood. "What are you planning on doing for the rest of the day?" She questioned.

He shrugged, glancing at Roger who stared back blankly. "I don't know. Hang here with you guys, I guess." He looked out the window, watching the rain fall heavily and splash into the glass. "Too nasty outside to do anything else."

His mom nodded in understanding. She turned to Roger. "I assume you're going to go see your mom sometime today or tomorrow? I haven't seen her in a few weeks now. I need to call her about meeting for coffee." She said the last part to herself, as a reminder.

The suggestion surprised Mark, and he was hit with a feeling of guilt. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Roger may want to go home and see his mother, but it wasn't surprising that he would, especially since they were already this close to home. He'd been so preoccupied reuniting with his family that it had slipped his mind that Roger had his own. Roger's mom had been there for him through everything, and though he had moved away from her, Mark knew that the woman held a special place in Roger's heart.

Mark saw something pass through Roger's eyes, but he couldn't figure out exactly what it was. His friend looked towards the floor for a fraction of a second before nodding, a strange smile on his face. "Yeah, I'd like to see her," he answered. Mark's brow furrowed at Roger's behavior. He made a mental note to ask about it later.

"Hey, Mark," his dad said, pointing at the remote on the coffee table. "Hand me that, will you? Let's see if there's a game on."

Mark tossed him the remote and leaned back into the soft couch cushions, relishing the fact that they weren't torn and stiff like the ones at the loft. He turned his attention towards the screen as his dad flipped through channels, finally settling on some replay of a New York Giants game. "You boys want to watch this with me?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

Mark couldn't help but smile. He remembered sitting down and watching baseball and football games with his dad when he was a kid. "Sure."

He stretched out on the cozy sofa, ready to spend a quiet afternoon with his family.

* * *

Mark lightly knocked on the door to the guest room. Roger had gone up there about an hour ago, saying that he had an idea for a song that he wanted to write out. Now it was almost 6:00, and his mom told him that dinner would be ready shortly.

"Come in," came the quiet voice from inside.

Mark turned the handle and pushed the door open, leaning against the doorway. The room was dim, but he saw Roger sitting at the desk, a lamp aimed towards the journal in front of him. He smiled in greeting. "Dinner's almost ready. You hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good. Mom insists that we're both too skinny. She's making a feast down there."

Roger chuckled. "I'm not complaining," he said with a shrug.

Mark agreed. It was kind of nice to have someone prepare a meal for him. "Anyway, it should be ready in about 10 minutes." He remembered the other thing he wanted to bring up. "And then maybe afterwards, we can go visit your mom. You should have told me that you wanted to do that. We could have gone earlier, you know? You could have even stayed with her for a night if you…" His rambling trailed off when he saw Roger shaking his head, his eyes filled with pain. "What?" Mark questioned, confused.

Roger bit his lip, his gaze dropping towards the floor. "I'm not going to visit my mom, Mark." He turned back to his journal, hunching over the paper.

He was shocked. "What do you mean you're not going to visit her?" he asked. He knew that he was prying, but he didn't really care. He took a step into the room, closing the door behind him.

"I mean exactly what I said. I'm not going." Roger didn't look at him as he responded, but Mark could hear the anger in his voice. He didn't know why, but that made him angry as well.

"You live two blocks down the road, Roger! You haven't seen your mom in eight years, and you're not even going to say hello?" Maybe it was the fact that recent events had shown him that he needed to value his parents more, but whatever it was, he couldn't understand why Roger was acting this way.

Roger didn't answer. He just stared down at the journal on the desk, the pencil motionless in his hand.

The lack of emotion that Roger was showing served to further Mark's anger. "Well?" he questioned. "Any reason you're not going to go see the woman who raised you?" His tone was harsh and angry, but he was confused. Regardless of his wild tendencies, Roger had actually been very respectful towards his mom when he was a kid. Maybe it was his way of saying 'Thanks' for sticking with him when his dad hadn't. Mark knew that Roger loved her, but like him with his own mother, had felt restrained by her. He'd needed to make his own way in the world, and he couldn't do that with his mom leaning over his shoulder. "You're not even going to let her know that you're in the neighborhood?" he pushed.

"Fuck off, Mark. It's none of your business," Roger growled out. Mark saw the muscles in his shoulders tensing up.

"What, you think I don't know exactly how you're feeling?" He put a hand on his own chest, gesturing to himself.

"No, you don't!"

"I didn't want to see my parents either," he reminded, "but it was worth it. Your mom would love to see you. Aren't you going to give her that?"

"I told you that I'm not," Roger growled, his teeth clenched.

Mark scoffed. "You're unbelievable." He knew that he was treading on dangerous ground, but he continued anyway. "We're _here_, Roger! We're already _here_! Walk down the fucking road and say hello!" Roger remained silent, and Mark shook his head angrily. "Wow, and for once I thought someone mattered to you. You really don't care about her at all, do you?"

Shit. He didn't mean that. Why did he say that?

Roger exploded, slamming his hand on the table as he yelled. "I'm not going _because_ I care about her!"

Mark's anger drained out of him, leaving him only curious and confused. He quietly took a seat on the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn't bring himself to apologize for what he'd said just yet.

Roger's head was bowed, his eyes shut tightly as he let out a deep sigh. He turned around in his chair to face him. "I'm not going, Mark," he explained calmly, "because it would be goodbye."

Mark froze. "What? What do you mean?" He felt a little bit of panic well up in his chest. Roger was healthy, wasn't he? His tests had all been good. He was fine. What did he mean _goodbye_?

The musician abandoned his writing, crossing the room and sitting next to him on the bed. He paused, letting out a small sigh as he prepared his next words. "I'm going to die, Mark, and you know that," he said quietly, staring directly into Mark's eyes as if hoping he'd understand. "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough." Mark shook his head in denial and opened his mouth to speak, but Roger continued, his voice calm and accepting. "I don't have that much time left," he said, "and the small amount that I do have, I want to spend in the East Village." He nodded his head. "That's home for me now." His shoulders sagged, and his gaze faltered slightly as if the next words were hard to say. "There's just not enough time to keep leaving home to come back here, even to see my mom."

Mark listened carefully, trying to take in what his friend was saying, but he could hardly stand it. It made his chest hurt when Roger talked like this.

He pushed aside his feelings and gave a tiny shake of his head. "I don't understand," he said. He was trying, but things weren't making sense. "Even if that's true, doesn't that make you want to see her more? If it's going to be the last time?"

Roger shook his own head, running a hand down his face. Mark was struck by how old his friend suddenly looked in that moment. His next words caught Mark off guard.

"That look on your mom's face when she saw you standing at the door after we got here. Do you remember it?" Mark thought back to that day. How could he forget that face? "She was so happy to see you home. To be able to hug you," Roger explained. "It was like nothing else mattered. Everything revolved around the fact that you were standing at the door." He smiled slightly and gave Mark a look. "That was the happiest that I've ever seen your mom."

He nodded. "Yeah, me too," he admitted.

Roger shook his head, his eyes filled with a pain that Mark could hardly bear to see. "I wish I could put that look on my mom's face," he said quietly, swallowing hard, "but I just..." He stopped, taking a moment to formulate his thoughts. "I don't feel like it's fair of me," he finally revealed, his voice soft. "I can't just reappear after eight years and give her that happiness only to snatch it away again when I never come back." Roger dropped his gaze to the floor. "Because we both know there'll come a time when I _can't_ come back, even if I wanted to." He shook his head sadly. "It's better that she doesn't even know I'm here. Then maybe it won't hurt her so much when I die." He inhaled deeply and let it out again. "Maybe it'll make it easier to move on."

Mark felt his throat closing up, a giant lump forming and making it hard to talk. Sometimes he wondered how Roger functioned with the amount of emotional baggage he carried.

He let out a breath and cleared his throat, hoping that his voice was strong and clear rather than choked with emotion. "You're healthy, Roger. You've _been_ healthy," he reminded. He'd always worried about his friend. He worried about all of them. But he knew that Roger's health was actually quite good. "You're probably going to live for years from now," he added. There was no reason that Roger couldn't continue with life successfully as long as he took care of himself, especially with the help of AZT.

"Yeah, or I could get sick next week."

Mark jumped up from the bed. "Stop!" he warned, a little bit of his anger returning. "Stop talking like that!"

Roger put up his hands defensively. "I'm just trying to explain to you," he said, and that made Mark pause. It wasn't fair of him to get mad. Everything that Roger was saying was very real to him, and he had no right to dismiss his friend's fears and insecurities to make way for his own.

"I know," Mark said, sighing. "And I understand what you're saying, but…" He was stumped, trying to formulate his thoughts into a solid argument. "You haven't been stamped with an expiration date. I mean, who knows? They could cure HIV in the next year, and then you'd be free," he said hopefully. He knew it was a lofty dream, but it was one that he firmly clung to. He couldn't watch any more friends die. "You'd be able to come back and see your mom for years and years from now, until old age takes her."

Roger gave a sad smile. "Maybe," he said, though Mark felt that Roger was just humoring him.

"I'm serious. You never know what'll happen."

Roger was staring at him with pity, and Mark didn't like that. He didn't like the way that Roger seemed to be writing himself off as dead meat.

He spoke quietly but fiercely, finally voicing the thoughts that he'd been harboring for so long. "You have to fight this, Roger," he said, hoping that his friend would understand. "You can't just roll over and take it. For all you know, you could live for 30 years from now if you really try." His voice became pleading. "But you have to _try_, Roger. You have to take your AZT without me reminding you. You have to go to the doctor when you feel sick. You…" he broke off for a minute, hoping that he wasn't being too harsh. He looked directly into Roger's green eyes. "You have to fight," he said again. "I know that it's hard, but you have to promise me that you won't just accept that you're going to die."

Roger stared back at him, his brow furrowed slightly and his eyes trained on Mark's. He nodded his head slowly. "I promise that I won't accept it," he said, his expression filled with sadness. His stare was penetrating and his voice was determined as he spoke. "But you have to promise me that when the time comes, you will."

Mark's heart was thumping painfully. How could he promise that? He couldn't accept his friend's death, no matter how much Roger wanted him to.

He clenched his jaw and sighed. "I promise that I'll try."


	10. Chapter 10

******This one's a little short, I know, but I needed to get the boys from point A to point B, so bear with me :)**  


**Chapter 10**

February 27, 1992

Mark woke slowly, blinking sleep out of his eyes. The sunlight shone through his window, creeping lazily across his bed as it stretched towards him. He let out a deep sigh, then threw back the covers and swung his bare feet onto the soft carpet. He was surprised that he'd woken up this early. The clock said 8:03.

He threw on some clothes and stumbled his way down the stairs, noting that Roger's door was still closed. He walked into the kitchen to find his mom plugging an electric griddle into the outlet.

"Oh, good!" She said as he entered. "I was just going to come wake you up! I'm getting some pancakes started so you can eat before you leave."

Mark's stomach grumbled, almost as if it could hear his mom's words. He and Roger were again catching the 10:00 bus, this time heading back to the East Village, and the thought of doing it on an empty stomach was painful. It was a fairly long ride.

"Thanks," Mark said gratefully, plopping down into a chair at the table. "You know how much I love your pancakes," he added. It was true. They'd always been his favorite breakfast food.

She smiled. "I know." Her brow furrowed for a minute. "Is Roger up yet?" She asked.

Mark couldn't help but laugh. The day that Roger willingly got up before him would be one for the record books. "No. Roger usually doesn't get up until someone _gets_ him up." He grinned. "I generally just throw something at him when I think it's time."

She snickered. "Right. We'll give him a few more minutes."

He nodded, glancing around the kitchen. It was funny, sitting here at the table and watching his mom make breakfast. That was something that he did years ago, when he was just a kid. It was crazy to him that he was now 26 years old, doing the exact same thing.

He clasped his hands together and set them on the table. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his arms. "You know, Mom, I've been thinking…" He saw her perk up a little at his words as she mixed the pancake batter, and he continued after a brief pause. "I think I'm going to try to make visiting you guys a regular thing."

His mom froze in her task, turning her head to look at him. "You are?" Her eyebrows rose in delighted surprise.

He nodded in confirmation. "Yeah. I mean, not like every month," he clarified, a little awkwardly, "but maybe every four or five." He gave a little shrug. "I just think that I should make more of an effort," he confessed, cheeks flushing slightly.

His mom's face stretched into a smile as he spoke, and she dropped her spoon into the mixing bowl before walking over to the table and pulling him into a tight hug. "We'd like that," she said, her voice filled with love and warmth. She pulled away, kissing his cheek as she did. "But you know, Sweetie, we understand that you have your work and your friends in the city." She headed back towards the pancake batter, pouring it onto the griddle and watching it sizzle. "Don't feel like you need to leave them to come check on us. Maybe when your father is healthy again we can start making trips out there." She stepped back a little bit as the pancakes cooked, sneaking a peek at Mark. "We'll make it work, Mark. Together."

He smiled. "I'd like that," he said. "Just, you know, give me a few days' warning." He smirked, imagining what would happen if his parents suddenly showed up at the loft unannounced. "Then maybe I can at least get Roger to wash dishes or clean the bathroom or something."

A raspy voice, still heavy with sleep, came from the doorway. "Aw, but you're so good at those jobs, Mark."

He turned around to see Roger shuffling his way into the kitchen, his hair adopting the spikey mess that seemed to be its default setting in the mornings.

"Yeah, well, I've had a lot of practice," he shot back good-naturedly. "That's what happens when your roommate's vocabulary doesn't consist of the word 'chore'."

Roger sneered at him. "Good morning to you, too," he said sarcastically, sitting down at the table across from him. Mark smirked.

His mom smiled at Roger as he sat down. "I'm surprised you're up," she said. "I was under the impression that I'd have to send Mark in to jump on the bed to wake you."

"He must have smelled those pancakes," Mark put in, ignoring the glare he received from Roger. "Food usually gets him out of bed."

"I'm really not that bad," Roger mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "Sleep is a good thing," he added defensively.

Mark chuckled. "I'm just playing, Rog."

"It's too early for games," the musician whined, dropping his head onto the table.

Mark met his mom's amused gaze, then reached over and gave Roger's head a comforting pat.

"Here you go," his mom said, carrying a couple plates over to the table. "Maybe some breakfast will wake you up," she suggested kindly. She set one plate in front of each of them, and Mark's mouth watered as he caught sight of the stack of pancakes waiting for him.

"These look great, thanks, Mary!" Roger said. He sat up straight in his chair, suddenly more aware than he'd been only seconds ago.

"Not a problem! It was actually kind of nice cooking for you boys again." She sat down at the table with them and smiled. "God knows it became a hobby of mine when you were young!"

They grinned as they dug in, layering their pancakes with butter and syrup. Mark devoured his in a matter of minutes, and Roger finished not far behind him. He leaned back, letting out a contented sigh.

"Those were delicious. Good job, Mom! You haven't lost you're touch," he teased.

Roger nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Best breakfast I've had in a long time." He grimaced, glancing at Mark. "Don't tell Mimi I said that," he pleaded.

Mark smiled. "You got it," he assured. "Thanks," he added, standing up and leaning over to give his mom a kiss on the forehead. He motioned to the stairs. "I'm going to go pack some stuff up."

"I'll come," Roger chimed in, standing up from his own chair. "Thanks, again,"

"You're welcome." She smiled at them as they left the kitchen.

Mark trotted up the stairs, sensing Roger following close behind him. "Where's your dad this morning?" Roger asked curiously.

"I think he's still sleeping. They said it would take a while until he was back to his full strength."

Roger nodded in understanding and peeled off into the guest room as Mark continued towards his own. He snatched his camera off of his desk, slipping it into its bag. He'd used it a little bit while he was there, mostly when he and Roger had visited his dad at the hospital.

He gathered some clothes off the floor, though he really hadn't brought much to begin with- just a couple pairs of jeans and tee-shirts, plus his jacket, scarf, and some underwear. He tossed everything into his duffel bag, not really caring that it was all dirty. He'd wash it later.

He looked around his room, trying to decide if there was anything else that he wanted to take back to New York. Not finding anything he needed, he turned his back and left the room, heading towards Roger's.

He knocked twice before pushing the door open and peeking in. "You got everything?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah. Everything important, at least," he said, motioning towards the bed where his guitar and the small orange bottle of AZT rested.

"I'll be downstairs when you're ready."

"Okay."

Mark left the room, dropping his duffel bag into the hallway as he reached the bottom of the staircase.

His mom was walking towards him. "When are you boys leaving?" she wondered.

"In about an hour."

"Let me go get your father up. He'll want to see you for a while before you go."

She jogged up the steps, squeezing Roger's arm gently as he passed her on the way down, his guitar and his duffel bag hanging over his shoulder. Mark pointed to the floor and Roger dropped his luggage.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, heading towards the kitchen. He could really go for some.

"Please."

Mark filled a couple mugs with the addictive liquid and handed one to Roger. They planted themselves on the couch, enjoying the fact that they still had some time to relax.

His parents joined them shortly after, and they passed the time in quiet conversation until finally, Mark glanced at his watch.

"9:45," he announced. "We'd better get going." He stood up, reaching out his hand to take Roger's empty coffee mug, but his mom intercepted it.

"I'll take these," she said, grabbing Mark's as well. She disappeared to the kitchen as he and Roger hefted their bags onto their shoulders. He heard his mom's footsteps as she approached again.

He turned around, staring at his parents as they stared back. Finally, he smiled. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll be seeing you guys."

His mom reached towards him, pulling him into a final embrace. She held on tightly, her face resting against his chest. "I love you, Mark," she said sincerely. "Thank you for coming home."

He smiled. "I love you, too, Mom. I'm glad I came."

She sniffled gently, trying to control her emotion, and pulled away with a tearful smile, kissing his cheek. She turned to Roger, wrapping him in a hug as well. "Thanks for coming with him, Roger. It was so nice to see you." She rubbed his back gently before pulling away, giving him a motherly kiss on the cheek also. "You're always welcome here," she added.

Roger smiled. "Thanks for everything," he said. "It was nice to see you as well."

Mark turned to his dad. "I'm really glad everything turned out okay, Dad," he confessed. "You take care of yourself."

James grinned, opening his arms, and Mark melted into them. He felt so comforted in these arms—he always had.

"Thanks for visiting, Son. That helped me get better faster than any medication could."

They stayed like that for a moment until Mark stepped back, and his father turned to Roger, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him into a manly hug. "You keep playing that guitar," he said. "I expect a copy of your album when it comes out," he added with a smile.

Roger gave a small grin. "You'll be first on the list," he promised. "Take care, Jim."

Mark's father nodded, and the boys turned to the door. Roger reached for the handle, and Mark glanced back once more. "Love you guys," he said, before following his friend's lead out of the house.

* * *

The bus ride home was long and uneventful. Roger had whipped out his notebook and was scribbling down a few words, which Mark tried to slyly read out of the corner of his eye. It was useless. He could barely read Roger's writing even when he was being obvious about it.

He was resting his head against the window and staring outside when he began recognizing the familiar streets of his city. A wave of happiness washed over him. They were almost home.

_Home._

Suddenly, he remembered something that he wanted to say to Roger.

"Hey," he spoke up, getting his friend's attention. Roger lifted his head slightly to show he was paying attention. "I was thinking about something you said last night."

Roger's eyes darkened a little bit, and Mark knew that he probably didn't want to revisit their discussion from the night before. It had been painful for both of them, and Roger must've thought that Mark was going to bring up his mom again. He continued hastily, trying to clarify before Roger got too upset.

"You said that Scarsdale wasn't home for you anymore," he explained. He remembered the little feeling of shock when he'd heard that. "At first, I didn't agree," he confessed, glancing out the window again. "I mean, how could it not be home, you know? That's where we grew up. We spent the first 18 years of our lives there." He looked back to his friend, who was watching him with a kind understanding in his eyes. "But I think I get it now. And I think I feel the same way."

Roger nodded a little bit, a knowing smile playing at the edges of his lips. "You know, Mark, it's okay if you don't feel the same way," he said, his eyes sincere. "Just because _my_ life in Scarsdale is over, it doesn't mean that _yours_ has to be." Roger directed his gaze past Mark's head and out the window, watching the crumbling buildings as they passed by. "It's just… So much has happened here, in the East Village. A lot of it was shitty, but a lot of it was great, too." He paused, formulating his thoughts. "This is where I feel like I really found who I am."

"I know," Mark agreed. "I understand that now." He shrugged his shoulders a bit. "It was nice to be back, but the whole time we were in Scarsdale, I just didn't feel completely comfortable, you know? Like maybe I didn't belong there like I used to." He turned to look at the city bustling past his window. "But now I feel like this is where I'm supposed to be. And honestly," he paused, trying to get over the embarrassment of revealing his next words, "if it's home for you, then it's home for me."

Roger smiled. "I'm glad," he said, just as the bus slowed to a stop. They stood up, gathering their bags and walking down the aisle, and doing their best not to whack anybody with their luggage. They thanked the bus driver on the way out and stepped onto the cracked pavement, glancing around at the old buildings covered in graffiti. They both held their breath when the bus pulled away and a thick cloud of exhaust assaulted their nostrils. Traffic rushed behind them, horns honking and people yelling curse words out their windows.

Roger turned to him with a grin. "Home, sweet home," he said.

Mark smiled back. "Home, sweet home."


	11. Chapter 11

******Next chapter! Enjoy the happiness because things may get dramatic real soon... :P**  


**Chapter 11**

March 27, 1992

Mark was bored. He was _so_ bored.

He was slumped on the couch lazily, his camera rolling in his hands. He pointed the lens around the room but made no attempt to focus on any specific object. It was just a way to waste time.

He didn't know what it was about this particular day that was so dull, but for some reason, he wasn't content to just sit around the loft. And by the look of things, Roger wasn't either.

Mark looked down at the floor, where his roommate was sprawled across the hardwood. He wasn't moving- just lying on his stomach, the side of his face pressed into the cold ground. His eyes were staring at some spot a little ways off, blank and unfocused. Why he ended up on the floor in the first place, Mark would never know.

Frankly, if there was a picture in the dictionary to illustrate the word 'pathetic', it would be of them in that moment.

Mark lowered the camera to film his friend. "Roger," he said.

"Ugh," was the muffled response.

"Do something exciting." He needed entertainment—something to put in his film.

"No."

"Come on."

Roger groaned at his persistence. "Like what?"

"I don't know," he replied with a shrug. "Play your guitar. Sing. Blow your nose, for all I care. Just do _something_." They'd been sitting around the loft all morning, and he was getting restless. It was Friday, and he'd been given the day off. Usually that was something that he enjoyed, but right now he almost wished he was at work keeping busy.

Roger turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His cheek was red from being pressed against the floor. Lifting his head, he looked at Mark. "Why don't we go outside? You can do your film thing out there."

Mark glanced out the window and frowned, noting the thin white blanket that coated the buildings. "It's snowing," he explained. "And freezing. Besides, there's nothing I want to film out there." It wasn't that he disliked the snow- he actually quite enjoyed it. But they'd gotten so much that winter, and it seemed to want to hang around longer than it usually did. By the end of March he was ready for it to end. He'd much rather stay in the loft where he would at least be sheltered from the wind, if not the cold.

Roger let his head drop back to the floor with a _thunk_. "I don't know, then. I'm out of ideas."

Mark snorted. "You're no help." It wasn't like they even had to entertain themselves for that long. Collins would be over in just a couple hours, and he was always guaranteed to bring fun. And after Mimi was home from work and Mo and Jo got there, they'd head to the bar where Roger was set to play that night. It was just getting through the afternoon that would be tough.

"I don't see you making much of an effort to come up with something," Roger responded defensively.

"I told you, play your guitar!"

Roger glared, obviously not liking the fact that Mark was using him as an entertainment source. But suddenly his eyebrow rose, and he sat up with a smile. "How about _you_ play my guitar?"

Mark frowned. "What?"

Roger pushed himself to his feet. "I can teach you some of the basic chords, and maybe an easy song. You want to learn?"

Mark was a little bit hesitant. He'd always thought it would be fun to try to play. He'd watched Roger do it so often that a little part of him wanted to, as well. But he'd never been especially talented when it came to music—at least, not musical instruments. He had a good voice, but that was where his talent ended. There was no telling how it would sound if he gave it a shot.

Roger noticed his hesitation. "Come on, we have nothing else to do," he reminded. "You might like it."

Finally, he gave a little nod. "Okay," he agreed. "But I can't guarantee that I'll be even a little bit good at it."

His friend shrugged. "So? Nobody's good when they're learning." He walked into his room and reappeared a moment later, a guitar in each hand. In his right was his trusty old acoustic, which he handed to Mark, and in his left was his prized Fender. He set it down and disappeared again, coming back with an amplifier and plugging it in.

Roger pulled a chair away from the table and out onto the floor, taking a seat across from Mark. He sat down and lifted his Fender up onto his right leg, but then he paused, looking to be struggling with himself.

"What's the matter?" Mark asked, a frown creasing his face.

Roger glanced at him, a pained look in his eyes, and then back down to his guitar. "It's, uh, it's actually easier to learn on an electric than an acoustic." His voice was soft and uncertain. "Maybe you should…"

Mark cut him off, knowing exactly where this was going.

"No," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "I'm not playing your Fender. I'll learn on this one."

He'd realized the issue. Roger wanted him to learn as easily as possible, but that would mean letting him play the electric guitar—the guitar that his mentor had entrusted to him all those years ago. Roger never allowed anybody else to even _touch_ that guitar, let alone play it, and Mark didn't blame him. It was special, and it was something that held memories for him. He couldn't just hand it off and allow others to mistreat it. He'd promised Kerz that he'd take care of it.

Roger raised his head, a grateful look in his eyes. Mark gave a small smile of understanding. He wasn't offended at all. The fact that Roger had even considered letting him play the Fender was more than enough.

He mimicked Roger's posture, pulling the guitar up onto his right knee and allowing his arm to sit comfortably over the top.

"Okay," Roger started, "obviously, you're not looking to become a pro or anything, so we'll forget about the finer details and I'll give you the abbreviated version."

Mark nodded in agreement, and Roger went on to explain the basic components of the guitar, including the names of the strings and how to make sure it was in tune. Mark followed fairly easily. He'd been around Roger long enough that he actually knew more about the instrument than he'd originally thought.

"So there's a few beginner chords that everyone needs to start with," he explained, handing Mark a white guitar pick and skillfully positioning his fingers on the neck of the Fender. "This is a G," he said, striking all six of the strings in a downward motion.

Mark studied Roger's finger position, trying to copy him. It wasn't easy. Roger had a guitarist's hands. They were large, with long fingers that he could easily stretch to the upper strings. His own hands were smaller, and it was hard for him to wrap them around the neck.

He finally got his fingers into a shape resembling that of Roger's, and he gripped the pick tightly, bringing it down forcefully across the strings.

It sounded horrible. The strings didn't ring out clearly like they did when Roger played. They were muted and twang-y. The pick got caught in the resistance of the strings and plucked them with an uneven amount of force, and Mark gritted his teeth.

"Okay, this was a bad idea," he said, dropping his arm off the guitar in embarrassment.

Roger looked at him in disbelief. "Seriously? You're giving up already?" There was disappointment in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped.

Mark shook his head. "Not everyone can play like you, Roger."

Roger snorted. "So? I couldn't play like me either until I became, well… me." His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his own sentence, but Mark actually followed his train of thought. Roger continued. "And you've been playing for all of 10 seconds. You're not going to sound perfect."

He sighed, but he raised his arm back into position.

"Just adjust your fingers a little bit," Roger suggested. "Try to make sure that each finger is only touching one string."

Mark shifted his fingers, stretching them a little further. He clasped the pick and tried again, bringing it down against the strings more gently this time. They rang clearly, and he smiled in satisfaction. He gave it a few more strums, liking the sound of the instrument.

"Can you remember that one?" Roger asked, and he nodded. "Okay, so the next one is D." He moved his own fingers on the neck of the Fender. "It looks like this. And you only play the bottom four strings." He demonstrated what the chord should sound like.

Mark followed his lead, quickly getting the hang of D. He liked that one. It was a natural position for his fingers. The next one, C, was harder, as it required that he stretch his fingers across the strings sideways as well as upwards. He had to constantly re-check his positioning to avoid getting an ugly sound. And finally he learned A, which wasn't particularly difficult, but it forced him to cram his fingers together tightly in one fret of the guitar.

Once he felt comfortable playing each chord on its own, Roger began to challenge him. He'd name a chord, and Mark had to play it, and then he'd name another one, which Mark had to transition to and play as well. Roger started slow at first, but gradually sped up as he became able to transition faster. He then gave him a few strumming patterns to try when he felt ready.

Mark was actually enjoying himself now that he'd relaxed and accepted the fact that it was okay to make mistakes. He followed Roger's advice to the best of his ability, though he struggled with some of the chord shapes, and his transitions were far from smooth. His fingers just refused to land cleanly on the strings, so the resulting noise was often muffled. Roger was patient, though, and they passed the afternoon hunched over their guitars.

Finally, over two hours later, Mark pulled his left hand off of the neck of the guitar, glancing at his fingers and wincing. He didn't really want to stop, but his fingertips were red and irritated, and he could see indentations from pressing them against the steel strings. He eyed Roger's hand with jealousy. He knew that his friend's fingers would be covered with tough calluses that protected him from the bite of the strings.

Roger must have seen him, because he chuckled lightly. "Your fingers are going to be sore for a little while."

Mark rubbed his fingertips gently against his jeans, hoping to get rid of the burn.

"Come here," Roger said, getting up and heading towards the kitchen. Mark followed, setting the acoustic guitar gently against the side of the couch.

Roger grabbed a dish towel off of the counter and opened up the freezer, reaching his hand in and securing a handful of ice. He wrapped the towel around the frozen chips and handed it over.

"Just ice them a little bit," he ordered. "That'll make them less sore for now, at least."

"Thanks," Mark said, reaching for the ice. He went back to the couch, taking up his previous seat again, and glanced at the guitar. He put down the ice and pulled the guitar into his lap, placing his fingers carefully into the D shape, but not pressing down. He pretended to strum the strings, and as quickly as he could, he switched to the G. He winced as his sore fingers protested loudly. Frowning, he lowered the guitar back to the floor.

Mark glanced into the kitchen and noticed Roger smirking at him as he walked over.

He grinned back a little guiltily. "It's addicting," he explained, wishing that he could keep playing. It surprised him how much he actually liked it. "You'll keep teaching me if I want to learn?"

Roger's eyebrows rose in surprise, and he took a seat again, pulling his Fender into his lap. "Yeah," he said, quickly wiping his face of the shock. "Yeah, I mean, as long as you're a good student and don't fight me," he teased.

Mark broke out into laughter, a memory coming to him. "You mean like you fought me in high school?"

Roger glared at him, but Mark didn't care. He remembered those after school tutoring sessions quite clearly, and he remembered the frustration on both of their parts.

"_Okay," a 17-year-old Mark said, pointing at the calculus book and trying to get his friend to look at the problem. They were sitting at his kitchen table, and Roger was slumped sideways, his head resting on his hand. Mark continued. "So, 'A rancher needs to enclose two adjacent rectangular corrals, one for cattle and one for sheep. If the river forms one side of the corrals and 390 yards of fencing is available, find the largest total area that can be enclosed.'" He glanced at Roger, who was staring at him blankly. "We just did a sample problem like this in class today. You should have notes on it."_

_Roger's blank expression morphed into one of guilt._

"_You didn't take notes." It was a statement, not a question. He should have known._

_At Roger's negative head shake, he sighed. "Okay, you can copy mine later. But think about it. What do you do first?"_

_Roger's eyebrows furrowed in thought. "You, uh, divide 390 by 5?"_

_Mark's own eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "By 5? Why?"_

_Roger pointed to the picture in the book. "Because there's 5 sides that need fencing. The two corrals share one side, and two more are bordered by the river, so there's only 5 sides instead of 8."_

"_Oh," Mark said, understanding where Roger had gotten the number. "Well, that's true, but we don't know that they'll all be the same length," he explained. "So you can't just divide. You have to use variables for the length and width of the corrals."_

_Roger groaned in frustration, slumping into his chair and dropping his face into his elbow, which was resting on the table. "This is so stupid," he whined._

"_Come on, Roger, you can figure this stuff out. It just takes practice. Look, think of the side opposite the river as one long side, even though it's part of both corrals. So there's three fences of one length, and one fence of a different length. You have to add the…"_

"_Wait, I have a question."_

_Mark looked up eagerly at Roger's interruption. "What is it?" This was good. If Roger had questions, that meant he was trying to follow the thought process._

"_Why the hell would someone build their corrals bordering the river?"_

_He stared at his friend, and Roger continued._

"_Seriously, what if his cattle waded out a little too far and drowned? Plus, all they'd have to do to get free is step into the water and walk around the fence. And what about wolves? They could swim through the water, enter the corral, and eat all the cows."_

_Mark rolled his eyes. "Maybe the rancher lives in an area without wolves."_

_"Coyotes, then."_

_"No coyotes either," he answered in exasperation._

_Roger shrugged. "So you still have the drowning and escaping problems."_

"_Roger, I don't think cows like water. They wouldn't escape that way. Or wade out too far." He was frustrated. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his time._

"_You don't know that. Have you ever owned cows?"_

_Mark's voice rose as he became more fed up with his friend. "No, but the rancher," he said, pointing to the book, "who obviously knows cattle, would know whether or not they like water! And if they liked swimming, he obviously wouldn't put them next to a river!" He huffed out a sigh, calming down a little bit and shaking his head. "I don't even know why I'm arguing with you about this."_

"_We're not arguing," Roger said, completely serious. "We're problem solving."_

_Mark scoffed. "Right… Look, just think about the math behind the problem, okay?"_

_Roger nodded his head, letting out a long breath. Mark knew he got easily distracted when he didn't want to be doing something, and this was one of those times._

"_So," Mark started again, "he's got 390 yards of fencing, so 390 = 3W + L." Mark wrote the equation down on a piece of paper, sliding it over towards Roger. "So then L = 390 – 3W. And we have to find the largest total area that the rancher could enclose, so…"_

"_That's the other thing," Roger chimed in, interrupting again._

_Mark clenched his teeth tightly. "What?" he growled out._

"_Who just buys 390 yards of fencing, and _then_ decides how big to make the corrals? That's dumb. He should have decided how big he wanted them, calculated how much fencing he'd need, and then bought it afterwards. Way more efficient."_

_Mark closed his eyes, hoping to control his annoyance. "I don't know, Roger, maybe he already had 390 yards of fencing lying around the ranch. Just, focus. Okay?"_

_Roger shook his head. "I'm done. This rancher is obviously an idiot. Let him figure out his own goddamn problems." He stood up, heading towards the living room where Mark knew his guitar was waiting._

_He dropped his head into his hands. "Another normal study session," he whispered to himself. He should be used to this by now._

Roger continued glaring as Mark continued laughing. "That shit was pointless," Roger defended.

Mark got control of himself, but he was still grinning. "Yeah, you made sure to tell me that a million times."

Roger shrugged, and then pursed his lips in thought. "I guess I owe you a thank you," he said seriously. "I wasn't the most, uh, teachable student. But you stuck with me."

"I promised you I would," he reminded. "And I know I wasn't the best teacher, either."

"You were a good teacher," Roger said. "I ended up with a B in the class, thanks to you."

"No, you ended up with a B in the class because you finally started trying," Mark countered, giving his friend a look. "You were always smarter than you gave yourself credit for."

Roger lowered his eyes, apparently uncomfortable with the personal turn the conversation had taken. "Maybe," he said, strumming his Fender, but Mark knew he didn't really think so.

They were both startled by a loud knock at the door. It slid open to reveal Collins, a wide grin on his face. "Hello, boys!"

Mark and Roger smiled brightly as Collins sauntered his way into the loft. "Hey, man! Glad you made it," Roger greeted.

"Take a seat," Mark added, pointing at the broken chair across from him.

"Don't mind if I do," Collins said, dropping into the chair heavily. It creaked in protest. "You guys will never guess what happened in my classroom today," he said with excitement.

"What?" Roger asked curiously.

"A couple of my students were doing a debate for the class," he explained, leaning forward with a smile, "and the thing turned into an all-out fist fight!"

Mark snorted. "No way," he said. "Aren't your students a little old to be starting fights in class?"

"You'd think," the big man said. "But they were going at each other like dogs. I'm pretty sure one kid even bit the other…" Collins chuckled. "It was crazy."

Roger smiled. "So did you handle it like the responsible adult that you're supposed to be or join in like the overgrown child that you are?" he joked.

Collins grinned back. "I handled it. I told them that if they didn't quit it, I _would_ join in and kick both of their asses."

Roger laughed. "Nicely done, Thomas."

"Did you have to fail them?" Mark asked.

Collins smirked and shook his head. "No. I'm giving them both A's for passionately defending their positions."

Mark shook his own head, laughing. Collins smiled at him, double-taking when he saw the ice bag he was holding. "What'd you do to your hand?" he asked curiously. "Have you been getting in some fights of your own over here? Did you finally punch him?" he teased, pointing at Roger.

Roger frowned. "Hey!"

Mark laughed again. "No," he said, holding up his bruise-less knuckles, and then rotating his hand so Collins could see his red fingertips. "Roger was teaching me guitar," he explained.

"Seriously?" Collins glanced at Roger, a small look of surprise across his face.

The musician nodded, smiling.

"It was actually fun," Mark told the big man, whose eyebrow rose in disbelief. "I want to keep practicing."

"Well, I never would have pegged you as a guitar player," Collins admitted. He addressed Roger. "So you're stuck teaching him, huh?"

"Yeah. I owe him for spending all that time in high school teaching me math."

Mark shrugged. "Like I said, I promised I wouldn't give up on you. You don't owe me anything."

"Well, now it's my turn. I'm promising that I won't give up on you, either."

Mark smiled. "Deal."

**Well, there ya go! And yes, I remember days in my high school calculus classes feeling exactly like Roger... that shit really _was _pointless :)**


	12. Chapter 12

******Disclaimer: **The lyrics aren't mine, they belong to Bon Jovi. Like I said, Roger just strikes me as a very similar type of musician :)**  
**

**Chapter 12**

March 27, 1992

Roger's show that night was a hit, as always. It was crazy, but the band was getting a great deal of attention after just a couple months of playing publicly. Early that month, Dennis Cramer, who Roger seemed to really like, had gladly offered them a weekly spot for the next few months. Along with that, The Well Hungarians had been approached by various bar-owners who'd heard about their shows through customers and decided to check them out. Many of them asked the band to play a show at their bar when they had a chance, and that's exactly what Roger was doing tonight.

He'd only played at this particular bar once before, but Mark recognized some of the people from previous shows around town. Eyes sweeping the floor, he could even see various girls singing along with the band's most popular lyrics. That made him smile. It was strange to think that random people would leave this bar with Roger's words stuck in their heads.

He looked up towards the stage, watching as Roger and Jeff stood back to back, their screaming guitars complementing each other beautifully as their ring-covered fingers skillfully flew over the strings. They had smiles on their faces, and he could see that they were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It seemed to him that the two guitarists had developed a certain flare to their performance that they hadn't possessed before. They played off of each other nicely, often getting into small guitar battles and joking with each other between songs.

Actually, it seemed that the entire band had progressed in the showmanship department. They'd always played skillfully and comfortably, but lately they'd begun to really show their confidence. They knew they were good at what they did, and it made their performances even more fun to watch. Their look had developed as well, becoming slightly less punk and more sophisticated. Rather than the jeans that they'd worn before, Roger and Jeff were wearing dark, well-fitting leather pants, and their feet were covered in scuffed black boots. Roger was donning a sleek bluish-silver button up shirt with the sleeves cut off, and his necklace could be seen resting against his chest where the top few buttons were undone. His earrings glinted in the light whenever he tilted his head at the right angle.

Mark leaned over to Mimi. "I'll be right back," he yelled over the music. "I'm going to grab a drink. Do you want anything?" He didn't bother to ask Maureen, Joanne, or Collins. They were too far away to hear him over the pumping of the speakers.

She nodded. "Just get me whatever you're having," she shouted back.

He gave her a thumbs-up and took off towards the counter. As he got further from the speakers, the volume died down to a more manageable level and he was able to hear friendly conversations going on around him.

Approaching the counter, he waved the bartender over and ordered a couple beers. The man had quite a few impatient customers to serve, so Mark sat down facing the stage as he waited. There was a middle-aged man sitting on the stool next to him, watching the band with a look of interest on his face.

Mark smiled and tapped his foot with the music, listening as his friend belted out the lyrics. The song that Roger was playing now was actually one of Mark's favorites. It was the song that they'd started their very first show with back in January, called 'We Weren't Born To Follow'. Something about it hit Mark close to home. It made him feel like he'd done the right thing, leaving Scarsdale to pursue his own dreams. He didn't want to be a follower. He wanted to make his own way in the world.

He felt a light tap on his forearm, and he turned his head to meet the gaze of the older man next to him. "These guys are pretty good," the man said casually, apparently trying to make conversation.

Mark nodded, willing to chat for a little bit. "Yeah, they are."

The man took a sip of his drink. "Have you seen them play before?"

He couldn't help but laugh, and the man looked at him in confusion. "Sorry," Mark said quickly, hoping that the guy didn't think he was laughing at him. "Actually, I haven't missed one of their shows yet."

"Wow, you're a dedicated fan."

Mark continued with a smile. "You could say that. The singer," he pointed to Roger, "he's my best friend. We live together."

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Really?"

He nodded.

"He's talented," the man said lightly, glancing at Mark.

"Yeah, well," Mark gave a tiny shrug, "he's worked hard."

The man nodded before suddenly sticking out his hand. "Name's Carl," he said, and Mark clasped it, giving a firm shake.

"Mark."

"So how long have you guys been friends?" Carl asked curiously, motioning to Roger.

"Since kindergarten," he answered. "We grew up together."

Carl gave a small nod. "I see. And has he always written his own songs?"

"He wrote a few, but nothing as popular as this stuff."

"Sir?" Mark turned around at the voice. "Your beers." The bartender held the drinks out for him to take.

"Thanks." He turned to Carl. "My friends will be looking for me," he said with a smile. "Enjoy the rest of the show."

The man smiled back. "I will."

Mark headed back towards the stage and handed Mimi her drink, then took a long gulp of his own. The Well Hungarians were just finishing up the song, and as the cheering died down, Roger walked to the microphone stand.

"This next song is a new one, so you'll have to let us know whether it's worth keeping around," he announced, and Mark's ears perked up. It was always a surprise when they introduced new material. "It's a song about friendship, which I hope everybody here can relate to. And if you don't have any friends and you can't relate, well…" he gave a little shrug, "then it sucks to be you," he joked, and smiled as a ripple of laughter went through the crowd.

Roger went on, adjusting his guitar around his neck slightly. "Before we start, I want to tell you why I wrote this. My friends are standing right there," he said, pointing to Mark, Mimi, and the others, "just like they have been at every single show that we've played in these last couple months." Roger looked down at them, and Mark saw the grateful expression in his eyes. "They've been there to support me through everything," he admitted to the crowd. "Even in my…" he paused, gritting his teeth as he searched for the words, "not so finest moments. So this next song is one that I wrote to thank them for that, and to let them know what their friendship means to me." He looked down again, and Mark felt as though Roger was looking right at him. "I guess this is kind of my promise to them. That I'll stick around through the tough times, and I'll be there when they need me, just like they have." Roger's gaze shifted back to the crowd. "Here we go!"

As the drums started a slow intro, Mark turned to look at his friends, who were smiling softly. He smiled as well. The fact that their friendship had inspired Roger to write a song was something that made his heart swell proudly. He was happy to be a part of it.

The guitars suddenly kicked in, picking up the tempo, and they played for a moment until Roger leaned towards the mic and began to sing.

_Time ain't nothing but time  
It's a verse with no rhyme  
Man, it all comes down to you  
And change, ain't nothing but change  
Just the faces and names  
But you know we're gonna make it through_

_I'll believe  
When you don't believe in anything_

_I'm gonna hold you, 'til your hurt is gone  
Be the shoulder that you're leaning on  
And I'll be standing here  
For the next 100 years  
If it all should end tonight  
I'll know it was worth the fight  
And we'll be standing here  
For the next 100 years_

_I, when I think that I'm losing my mind  
It all comes back to you  
And you, you know that it's true  
After all we've been through  
There's nothing that I wouldn't do_

_Stand by me,  
And I would gladly give up everything_

_I'm gonna hold you, 'til your hurt is gone  
Be the shoulder that you're leaning on  
And I'll be standing here  
For the next 100 years  
If it all should end tonight  
I'll know it was worth the fight  
And we'll be standing here  
For the next 100 years_

Mark's smile grew throughout the song. It wasn't exactly a piece that made you want to get up and dance, but it wasn't solemn, either. It was full of meaning and hope. The way Roger sang the lyrics was powerful, as though he meant every word, and that was a comforting thought. It made Mark believe that his friend truly would be with him for the next 100 years, regardless of what happened.

They sang through the chorus again, Roger's voice echoing into every corner of the bar, and the guitars played a final riff that faded out, leaving the music ringing in Mark's ears. The crowd cheered noisily and Roger thanked them, then he looked down at Mark, giving him a nod. _That one was for you guys_, he seemed to say, and Mark smiled.

The Well Hungarians played a couple more songs before calling it a night. They thanked the audience and left the stage, and the crowd dispersed back to various tables, drinks in hand. Mark felt someone tug on his wrist, and turned his head to see that Mimi was pulling him along.

"Come on," she said, following Collins, Maureen, and Joanne, "let's go sit down for a while."

He obediently tagged along, letting the others lead him to an empty table off to the side of the bar. He pulled out a chair between Mimi and Maureen and took a seat. They relaxed back in their chairs, content to chat and people-watch as they waited for Roger.

"Hey, Mark," Maureen suddenly said, nudging his elbow. "Have you ever thought about dating again?"

He choked on the beer he was drinking, spraying it across the table through his nose.

"Whoa, watch it!" Collins warned, quickly leaning backwards to avoid the mist.

He coughed. "Sorry," he squeaked out, and then turned back to Maureen, who was staring at him in amusement. "Ummm, w- what?" he stuttered. "Have I what?" He didn't know why he asked. He'd heard her the first time.

"Dating, Mark," she said, laughing. "Have you ever thought about dating again?"

He swallowed, glancing at Joanne, who was following the conversation with interest. He wasn't quite sure how to answer. "Ummm, no, I mean… Well, I have, maybe once, but no… Why are you asking? I mean, you and Joanne, you're… you know, together." He finished awkwardly, mentally replaying how unintelligent he must have just sounded. He couldn't help it. With the right question, Maureen still had the power to do that to him.

However, he was surprised when Maureen's confused face changed to one of realization. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened as she said, "Oh!" before dissolving into a fit of laughter. She took a breath to compose herself. "No, Mark, I didn't mean dating _me_!" she said through her giggles. "I just meant dating! In general."

Mark felt his face turn bright red as the rest of his friends stifled their laughter. "Oh," he said, mentally chastising himself. _Of course that's what she meant, idiot._ He tried to shrug off the embarrassment. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, I've thought about it." His eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "Why do you ask?"

Maureen smirked knowingly, glancing at a table just a few away from them. "Because there's a girl over there who has been undressing you with her eyes since we sat down."

He felt the blush return to his cheeks. "What? No," he said, shaking his head. No, that kind of thing didn't happen to him.

"Yes!" Maureen insisted, smiling. "She's totally into you! Won't you at least look? She's kind of hot." Joanne shot a glare in Maureen's direction, but Maureen quickly remedied the situation with a kiss.

"Come on, Mark, at least take a peek!" Collins encouraged, a goofy grin on his face.

Mark hesitated, and then turned his head slightly. It didn't take long for his eyes to meet those of a pretty, young blonde girl. She smiled when she noticed that he was looking at her, and he gave a shy grin in return.

"You should go talk to her," Mimi said quietly, nudging his arm.

He turned back to his friends. "No, I don't think so," he said, not at all comfortable with that idea. He didn't really know how to do that. When he'd first met Maureen, she'd basically done the work, and he just went along for the ride. Whether or not he could actually entertain a girl with conversation had yet to be discovered.

"You're going," Maureen said with determination. She stood up, pulling him up by the elbow as she did.

"Hey!" he protested, but she ignored him, giving him a push towards the girl's table.

"Go on," she said, making a shooing motion with her hand as she sat down and raised her feet up onto his chair. "We'll be rooting for you!"

Mark groaned, glaring at her dangerously, but he quickly sent the glare at the rest of his friends as well. Nobody was making a move to help him. Instead, they each smirked and remained quiet.

"Fuck all of you," he mumbled in resignation before turning and approaching the girl's table. She was sitting with a few other people and she smiled brightly as he walked up.

"Hi," Mark greeted, giving a small wave.

"Hi!" she said enthusiastically, her grin growing even wider.

"I, uh… I was wondering if you, maybe…" he took a breath, forcing himself to relax. She really was pretty. "I was wondering if I could buy you a drink."

She stood up so fast that Mark almost missed the action entirely. "Yes!" she practically yelled at him. "Yes!"

He was more than a little surprised by her enthusiasm, and he smiled in relief. "Great!"

She excused herself from her friends and they walked over to the counter. Mark ordered another beer and she got a drink with a strange fruity name that he'd never heard of before.

"I'm Mark," he said, introducing himself as they sat down across from each other at a small table.

"Samantha," she responded, leaning in towards him until her nose was practically touching his. She was way too close, and Mark was uncomfortable. He needed a little space to breathe.

He leaned backwards just a bit, trying to give himself some room without offending her. "That's a pretty name," he said, making conversation.

She smiled nervously before opening her mouth to answer, the words spilling out at an incredible rate. "Really? Thanks! I'm so glad you think so! It's something that I've really struggled with, actually. See, I never really liked the name. I'm not sure why, I just didn't think it was really me, you know? And I wanted to shorten it to something, but there were just too many choices to make. Like, should I go by Sam? Or is that too boyish, and would people think I'm weird? Or should I go by Sammy, to try and girl it up a bit? And if I went by Sammy, should I spell it with a –y or an –i? Because an -i would make it a little more unique, but I didn't want to have to constantly correct people that it was S-a-m-m-_i_ instead of S-a-m-m-_y_. So then I decided to just stick with Samantha, because that was much easier, and there's really only one way to spell it!"

Mark stared at her, his beer halfway to his lips. He'd never heard someone talk that fast. Ever. He didn't actually know it was humanly possible. Taking a sip of his drink, he nodded. "I understand."

That was a lie. He'd been so amazed by her rambling that he'd missed 90 percent of what she'd said.

She was staring at him with wide eyes, and he squirmed in his seat, feeling like he was under a microscope. She wouldn't look away from him. She hadn't even glanced at anything else in the room since they'd sat down, and he wasn't even sure that he'd seen her blink yet. For some reason, those eyes weren't as pretty when they were staring at him hungrily like they were now.

He cleared his throat. "So," he said, thinking of a question to ask. He'd just opened his mouth to speak when she cut him off.

"I'm so glad that you came over to see me," she interrupted, her words again tumbling out at an abnormally fast pace. "I was hoping that you would. I was kind of watching you all night. You were standing in the front, by the stage, and I saw you and thought you were really hot, so I kept my eye on you! But I wasn't sure if you were dating one of those girls that you were with, because I mean, you got one of them a drink from the bar. So I just stood back and watched you. I love the way you dance," she finished with a grin.

And though he followed her words this time, again Mark couldn't help but stare. This whole situation was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. He caught himself and blinked. "Oh, that's, umm…" _Creepy_, he wanted to say, but he held it in. "Nice. That's nice. Uh, thanks."

"Of course," she said, grinning. "It's true, I mean, look at you! You're gorgeous. And really, really sweet!" Mark raised an eyebrow. How did she know that? He'd barely said two words to her. Correction: she'd barely _allowed _him to say two words to her. For all she knew, he could be the biggest jerk she'd ever met.

Instead of voicing that thought, he just said, "Thanks." Normally he'd love getting complimented by a girl, but she was laying it on a little thick, and he was getting irritated with her chatter.

He opened his mouth, but she again cut him off.

"You're seriously exactly what I've always looked for in a guy. It must be fate that we met! We're perfect for each other."

Mark snorted out a laugh, but quickly played it off as a cough. "Actually, I think it's just kind of coincidence," he said, hoping to shut her down.

She smiled, apparently not getting it, and leaned in closer, filling the space that Mark had previously opened up. "I can barely hear you in here. Why don't we go somewhere quieter to talk?"

"Ummm, actually, it's really not that loud anymore."

She ignored him, her eyes glinting. "We could get out of here. Maybe go back to your place…"

Mark's eyes widened at her hint. "No!" He grimaced internally. He didn't mean to yell that. "No, it's just, umm, I have a roommate, and he, ummm…" Mark glanced towards the table that his friends were sitting at just as Roger happened to be joining them. "Oh, actually, he's right there!" Mark said, pointing, and standing up. He couldn't thank his friend enough for his timing, because he was done here. This was too bizarre. "I, uh, I have to go talk to him," he told Samantha, slowly beginning to take steps backwards. "It's really important."

"Oh, ok," she said, nodding her head enthusiastically. "I'll be right here!"

_What? _"Oh, well, you know, it might be a while," he said, feeling incredibly awkward. "Like I said, it's really, really important. You might want to go sit with your friends again."

She looked at him with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay," she said quickly. "Just come find me when you're done!"

_Oh my God,_ Mark thought, not believing that she didn't understand. "Yeah. Umm, well… bye." He gave a small wave and whipped around, practically running back to his friends.

He approached the table and fell into his seat. His best friend had pulled up a chair between his empty one and Mimi's, and their hands were clasped on the table. Roger turned to him with a grin. "Hey, there, Lover Boy!" he teased.

Mark shook his head, shooting daggers at Maureen. "I can't believe you made me do that," he growled out.

Maureen frowned a little bit. "You didn't like her?" she asked with surprise.

"I'm pretty sure she is certifiably insane!"

Collins snickered from his spot across the table, and Mimi fought a grin at Mark's outburst. Roger slapped him on the shoulder. "You gave it a shot, though!"

"Never again," Mark said, dropping his face into his hands. "Never again am I ever listening to you!" He pointed at Maureen.

She pouted, genuinely upset. "I'm sorry, Mark! I thought for sure you'd like her."

He huffed out a sigh. "It's okay. I guess I'm just not really the dating type." He shrugged. "Maybe I'm better off single." He took a long gulp of his beer. It figured that the one girl who was really into him was beyond quirky.

"Hey, come on," Roger said. "You'll find the right girl. And you'll know it as soon as you do." He squeezed Mimi's hand a little tighter, and Mark saw her smile and lean against his shoulder.

He nodded. "Yeah, well, until then, I'm staying away from women." He smiled lightly, feeling himself calm down now that he was back in the company of his friends. Besides, there was no use in being upset. It was over.

"See, now you understand why I'm gay!" Collins joked, and they broke into laughter.

When their giggles had died down, Roger turned and gave Mimi a kiss on the cheek, and then stood up. "I'll be back in a few. I need some water." He headed off towards the bar.

After 15 minutes, Roger still hadn't returned. "Where is he?" Mark wondered, looking at his friend's empty chair. He was worried that Samantha would see that he wasn't truly talking to his roommate and try to approach him again.

"I don't know," Mimi answered with a frown. She stood up and glanced over at the bar, searching up and down the stools. "Oh, there he is!" She pointed towards the end of the counter.

Mark looked as well, and spotted his friend's bleached blonde hair. He was sitting with his back to them and appeared to be in deep conversation with the man beside him. Looking closer, Mark recognized the middle-aged guy as the one he had been talking to earlier, during Roger's performance. What was his name? Carl?

"I wonder what they're talking about." Mimi glanced at her boyfriend with curiosity before sitting down. She rested her chin on her hand and yawned loudly. "What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch, feeling the urge to yawn as well. "12:30." It was getting late. They needed to leave pretty soon, especially since they had to walk all the way home. Roger had another show tomorrow, and that was the one that they'd really party after. But right now, sleep sounded pretty good.

Roger must have been feeling the same way because he finally stood up from the bar and reached out to shake the man's hand. Heading back towards their table, he was stopped by multiple people who wanted to thank him for the show. Mark could see Roger smile and nod, expressing his gratitude that they'd listened to the band play. He finally made it back to his chair and collapsed into it.

"Sorry," he said, apologizing for his untimely return. "I was talking to some guy over at the bar."

"Yeah, we saw. Who was it? What did he want?" Maureen asked.

"His name was Carl." Roger shrugged, a puzzled frown on his face. "And nothing, really, he just wanted to talk. He was telling me about his family and stuff, and asking about the band and about me. He was a cool guy. Seems like he really enjoyed the show."

Mark nodded. "Are you guys about ready to head out?"

There were noises of agreement from his friends, and everyone finished up their drinks, leaving their empty glasses on the table. They stood up, gathering their jackets and pulling them on, and Roger snatched up his guitar case. Collins led them to the exit, and they stepped outside into the falling snow.

* * *

They were walking home in comfortable silence when Mark's ears picked up the sound of someone quietly singing. He aimed his camera over at Mimi, who was absentmindedly mumbling out the lyrics as she clung to Roger's arm.

"I'll be standing here," she whispered, "for the next 100 years…"

"Hey!" Roger said, turning to her with a grin as he recognized it. "That's my song!"

Mimi smiled shyly when she realized she had been caught. "It's catchy!" she said, laughing, and the others nodded in agreement.

"It actually is," Maureen added somewhat reluctantly, as if she didn't want to give Roger that satisfaction. "I've had it stuck in my head since you played it."

Roger smirked. "I'm glad you liked it."

"It was a good song, Rog. Thank you." Mark glanced at his friend as he said it. It was touching that he'd written a song for them.

Roger nodded. "I meant it, you know," he said, his expression serious as he addressed his friends. "I can't tell you guys what it means to have you in my life. I owe all of you."

Mimi leaned into his side as they walked. "We know that you meant it, baby," she said, a smile on her face, and Mark clapped Roger on the shoulder, giving it a little shake to show that he understood.

Collins grinned widely. "It really was a great song, Rog," he said, glancing backwards to meet Roger's eyes. "And by the way, I've been meaning to tell you something," he added, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Roger squinted suspiciously. "Yeah? What's that?"

Collins glanced down at Roger's attire, eyeing the black leather. "Nice pants," he teased, before breaking out into laughter.

Roger rolled his eyes at the comment. "Don't dis the leather, Collins," he warned good-naturedly. "You're just jealous."

Maureen smirked. "I think they look hot," she said, glancing at Roger, and Mark was surprised when Joanne actually smiled, nodding her head.

"Me too," Mimi purred, turning to Roger with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. It was Mark's turn to roll his eyes as her hand slid down Roger's back and landed on his ass. He was disturbed that he'd gotten that on film.

"Ha, see?!" Roger yelled triumphantly. "I knew they were a good choice. The ladies love them."

Collins just snickered, shaking his head, but he quit his teasing when he realized that he'd lost.

They walked a bit further, the silence broken only by their boots crunching in the snow. Suddenly, Mark's heartbeat skyrocketed as a strangled cry filled the air and was cut off quickly. They froze, their eyes wide as they looked around the street for the person who was in distress.

Without warning, Roger, who had been walking closest to the buildings on their right, thrust his guitar case into Mimi's hands and took off down a side alley at a full sprint. They were caught off guard for a moment, but Collins broke into a run as well, following him, and Mark and the girls weren't far behind.

Once he'd turned into the alley, it wasn't long before Mark saw what had prompted Roger. There was a man pinning a young woman up against the side of the concrete building, and he was holding a knife at her throat. Her eyes were fearful, pleading with the man, but he was bigger than she was, and easily overpowered her as she tried to push him away. Mark felt anger hit him. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

Mark wanted to yell out, but he didn't need to because Roger crashed into the guy with all of his weight, throwing him off balance. The man stumbled sideways before quickly spinning around and lunging at Roger, shoving him into the side of the building. His back was to them as he hit the wall hard, his legs buckling a little bit at the force.

Collins and Mark were rapidly approaching the fight, and the man glanced up when he heard them coming. He quickly took a couple of steps backwards before turning and sprinting in the opposite direction. Mark didn't blame him. Collins was a big guy, and it would be intimidating to see him barreling towards you. He'd book it out of there, as well, if it was him.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Collins yelled, chasing him a little ways down the alley.

"Smile for the camera, asshole!" Mark added, pointing the lens in that direction. He didn't know if he actually managed to get a shot of the guy, but it was something to look into later.

Collins gave up his chase and turned around, heading back to Mark. "I fucking hate people like that," he said, sneering, and Mark nodded in agreement. Sadly though, they lived in the East Village, and things like muggings and attacks were common. It was a fact of life, and one that they had to deal with.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mimi's frightened voice. "Oh my God!" she yelled. He and Collins whipped around, seeking out the girls. Mark's immediate fear was that there was another attacker.

Maureen and Joanne had been comforting the young woman, but all three of them froze in place, staring at the other side of the alley in shock.

"Oh my God!" Mimi said again, her voice frantic. "Roger!"

Mark's heart dropped. He quickly turned his head, focusing on his friend who was still half-leaning against the wall.

"Holy shit," was all he could say.

Because Roger was pulling his left hand away from his chest, and it was covered in blood.


	13. Chapter 13

**I know, I know, I hurt Roger! Forgive me, but it needed to happen to get in some of the stuff that I wanted to write!**

**Just to clarify, if you actually do pay attention to the dates at the beginning of the chapters, don't be confused! This picks up right where we left off, but remember it's about 1:00 in the morning, so it's technically now the 28th, not the 27th.**

**Finally, I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, so please excuse my lack of knowledge when it come to medical emergencies, as well as proper police and EMT procedure in a situation like this. If it sounds wrong, it's probably because I made it up!**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 13**

March 28, 1992

Mark was frozen in place, staring in horror at his best friend.

Roger looked up, his pain-filled eyes meeting Mimi's, and then slowly sliding over to Mark.

He took a couple of unsteady steps away from the wall and then paused. "Shit," he managed to say, before the adrenaline faded. His legs failed him and he collapsed, landing on his knees and tipping sideways into the snow.

That was enough to spur the rest of them into motion. Mark dropped his camera, not caring that he may have just broken it, and sprinted the short distance to his friend.

"Roger!" he yelled, falling to his own knees and spraying a mist of white powder into the air. He noticed that Mimi did the same thing across from him.

Roger's teeth were clenched and his eyes were shut tight, but they opened when he heard them approach. He was leaning on his left elbow, trying to push himself back up into a sitting position, but couldn't. His arm gave out and he dropped onto his back.

"Roger! Oh, shit," Mark mumbled, catching sight of the wound, and he heard Mimi gasp. The knife must have gone deep, entering just underneath his collarbone on the right side. Blood was already seeping into his clothing, plastering the material of the sleeveless shirt to his skin. The stain spread slowly across the fabric, getting larger as Mark watched. His heart pounded frantically against his rib cage at the sight. They needed to stop the bleeding.

He reached up and pulled the scarf off of his neck, and, without thinking, lowered his hands to press the wadded material against the wound.

"Mark, stop!"

"No!"

Those voices came from behind him, and though he heard them clearly, they didn't register. He'd just barely made contact with his friend's chest when Roger's left hand flew up and shoved him hard. He was thrown backwards and landed heavily in the snow, grunting as the wind was knocked out of him with a loud huff.

"Don't fucking touch me, Mark! Get away!" Roger snarled before moaning and covering the wound lightly with his hand. Mark's mind was reeling as he struggled into a sitting position. What was that about? He was trying to help. Roger _needed _help.

Someone put their hands on his shoulders from behind, and he looked up to meet Maureen's worried eyes. "Mark, did you get any blood on you?" she asked frantically, walking around to kneel in front of him. She searched his hands and his shirt, panic on her face.

"What?" He was so lost. Why was that important? Roger was bleeding five feet from them, and he wasn't doing anything to stop it.

Her eyes widened as she scanned his clothing and he looked down, noting the red stain smeared on the front of his jacket. _It must have come from Roger's hand_, he thought absently.

"Mark!" she screamed, shaking his shoulders and forcing him to look at her. "Take that off now!"

Numbly, he did as she commanded, sliding the coat off of his body. His mind was still in overdrive. His best friend had just been _stabbed_. How was that even possible? How was that even _fair_?

Maureen looked at his hands again as he set the coat down, her eyes wide and worried. He wasn't used to seeing her like this. "Did you touch the blood?" she asked firmly, looking up at him.

He met her concerned gaze, his brain still catching up with the situation. With a jolt, he suddenly realized what he'd almost done.

Did he touch the blood. The _infected _blood.

He opened his mouth, stuttering out a response. "N-no. No, I didn't touch it." Roger had pushed him away before he'd had the chance.

She breathed out a deep sigh of relief before glancing behind her, where Collins and Mimi were kneeling next to their friend. Mark roughly pushed her aside and clambered to his feet. He stumbled the few steps that it took to get him there, his legs weak and shaky and his heart in his throat. Maureen and Joanne followed right behind him, their eyes wide and their faces creased with worry.

Roger was on his back, his right arm lying still at his side and his bloody left hand clasped lightly over his wound. "Let me see it," Collins said firmly. He grabbed Roger's wrist and pulled his hand away, leaving no room for argument. Roger hissed out a breath between clenched teeth at the movement, his eyes screwed shut in pain, but he allowed Collins to look.

Mark was once again met with the gory picture. He could see the slash in Roger's shirt where the knife had entered, but other than that, he could only see red blood mixing with the blue-ish fabric. Collins cursed quietly. He briefly looked up at Mark, Maureen, and Joanne, his brown eyes full of worry. "Call an ambulance," he ordered, before turning his attention back to Roger. Without hesitation, he shuffled to his side and reached for the scarf that Mark had dropped.

Joanne nodded. "I'll find a payphone," she said, quickly making a move to leave the alley and head for the street.

Mark heard a voice behind him speak up. "Wait! Here, I've got it." It was the pretty girl that they'd helped. She was standing far enough away that he doubted she could hear their conversation, but she must have realized what was going on. She reached into her purse to pull out a large mobile phone. Mark was surprised. It was rare that you saw someone with one of those, particularly in the East Village. They were expensive.

"Thanks," Mark said before turning back to his friends.

Collins hastily crumpled the scarf into a ball with his large hands. "Ok, Rog, hang on, man," he soothed, his deep voice controlled and comforting. "You'll be fine. Just relax, we've got you."

Mark listened to him speak, his brow furrowing. How could Collins keep calm right now? Personally, he was beyond tense. His hands were balled into tight fists, and his heart was racing. Roger had just been _stabbed. _Roger was fucking _bleeding_ all over the place. The red liquid was collecting in a pool just underneath his collarbone and dripping down the side of his chest and his bare shoulder.

Roger looked at Collins and gave a tiny nod, his eyes full of trust, and Mimi reached out and clasped his hand firmly. Mark swallowed when he saw Roger's blood transfer onto her hands as well. Not that it mattered. The disease couldn't infect her twice.

Collins sucked in a deep breath, looking apologetically at the man on the ground, and lowered his hands to press the scarf onto the wound. Mark didn't comment when he saw the man's hands shaking slightly. _Of course he doesn't feel calm_, he realized,_ but he's acting like it for Roger._

Roger let out a strangled cry when Collins made contact, and his body arched in an effort to escape the new pain.

"Fuck," he moaned, his head rolling sideways. His panting breaths were causing his chest to rise and fall heavily, and the little clouds of condensation disappeared into the cool night air. Mimi put a gentle hand on his hair that was damp with melted snow, tears running down her face. Mark didn't blame her. It was hard to watch what was happening and be powerless to make it better. It reminded him of Roger's withdrawal and how helpless he'd felt then, as well.

She brushed her fingers down Roger's cheek. "It's okay. You're okay," she whispered, her words coming out choked, but she smiled at him in encouragement.

Roger turned his head slightly to meet her eyes, and he tried to smile as well. "I know, Meems. Don't cry," he said, his voice strained from the pain. He gave her hand a little squeeze.

Collins readjusted his hands and pushed into the wound even harder, working to apply even pressure. Roger cried out again and tried to roll away, but Collins held him in place, gritting his teeth as he easily subdued the man lying on the ground. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice less composed than it had been just seconds ago. "I'm sorry, Rog, I know it hurts. But I have to." Mark could see the emotions running across the professor's face, and he was feeling them as well. It was an internal battle between doing what was necessary and sparing their friend more pain.

Roger groaned, gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes squeezed shut tightly. The heels of his black boots dug firmly into the ground as he bent his knees and pulled his legs up before straightening them again, squirming in pain, and his breath escaped in rapid huffs.

Mark ran his hands through his hair, turning away from the scene for a moment. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take standing there and watching his friend writhe on the ground. He could hear Collins speaking soft words, and Mark took a deep breath to compose himself. He needed to do something useful, and he needed to be calm about it.

He jogged over and carefully picked up his jacket from where he'd left it, avoiding the blood stain on the front. Turning it inside out, he crouched down next to Collins. "Here, Rog," he said softly, reaching out and gently lifting his friend's head.

Roger's eyes opened and locked on Mark as he slid the jacket underneath, providing a barrier from the wet ground. His eyes were pained and pleading as he spoke. "Get away, Mark," he growled softly. "You can't touch the blood." He attempted to put distance between them by scooting closer to Mimi, but he was stopped by Collins.

"Stay still," the man ordered, though not harshly.

Mark shook his head, looking down at Roger and hoping to alleviate his fears. "Don't worry about it." He knew the risks, but at that moment, he didn't care. Besides, as long as the infected blood didn't enter his system, the disease couldn't harm him. As far as he knew, he didn't have any open cuts that would allow that to happen.

Roger stared back, his eyes bright. "No, you can't," he moaned again, but his voice wasn't as strong as before, and his words were hard to hear around his rapid breathing. "Get away. Please get away." He shut his eyes tightly as Collins moved his hands, irritating the wound.

Mark's eyes remained locked on Roger's face. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly, his voice determined. "I'm staying here with you. Just let it go."

Roger shook his head in refusal, but he didn't say anything else on the matter. Mark didn't know whether he'd accepted it, or whether he was just hurting too badly to protest.

Collins and Mimi both turned their heads, giving him concerned looks, and Maureen and Joanne were staring as well. "You should step back, Mark," Collins warned quietly, looking down at his hands pressed against the wound. "It's not safe for you. There's too much blood, and I don't know where it'll end up."

Mark looked at the stains of the vital liquid running down Roger's skin and clothing and coating Collins' hands. "I'll be careful," he reassured. He shifted slightly, moving away from Collins. It would be stupid of him to touch the wound, but he needed to do something to help, even if it was just talking.

Collins glanced at him again, and then accepted his decision with a small nod. "Damn it," he mumbled, his fingers clenching the scarf tightly, but it wasn't enough material and it was getting soaked too quickly. The blood had begun seeping out from underneath and running in little rivulets down Roger's neck, and Collins desperately tried to stop it. "I need something else," he admitted, looking up frantically.

"Here." Mark straightened his back and tore at the buttons of his flannel shirt. He removed it and held it out to Collins. He was now clad in only his white tee, but he didn't feel the freezing air.

"Thanks." Collins snatched it from his hand and pressed it down on top of the scarf, trying to keep the material from hitting Roger in the face. The wound was high, and Roger's chin was in the way if he tilted his head to the right.

"Is that ambulance coming?" Collins questioned desperately, looking up at Maureen. Her eyes widened and she relayed the question to the brunette girl.

"They said they'd be here as soon as they could," she answered, glancing over at the alley's entrance as if help would just suddenly appear. There was a worried look on her face, and Mark imagined she was probably thinking along the same lines as him. The roads were slick, and even an ambulance would have to be cautious. They wouldn't be able to get there as fast as they could under different conditions.

Collins nodded. "Hear that, Rog?" he asked brightly, dropping his head to look at the musician. "We'll get you out of here soon." He was leaning heavily on his hands, attempting to apply as much pressure to the wound as possible.

Roger flicked his gaze over to Collins. There was sweat beading on his forehead and his upper lip, mixing with the melting snowflakes that landed softly on his face. "'K," he breathed out, acknowledging the statement. He was no longer gasping in pain, but his breath was fast—too fast. Mark didn't know what was causing him to breathe like that. He'd started shivering.

_Shit, _Mark thought. _Of course he's cold. It's fucking snowing. _They should have thought of that sooner.

"Maureen," he said, glancing up at her, "can you cover him with your jacket?" He'd offer up his own, but it was already in use.

Maureen nodded. "Absolutely." Taking off her long coat, she hustled around to Collins' other side and gently draped the jacket over Roger's lower body. "Here you go, Baby," she said in a soothing voice. She crouched down and put her hand lightly on Roger's ankle in support, and Joanne joined her. They both nodded encouragingly at Mimi, who was tightly holding the musician's hand between both of hers.

Roger just barely lifted his head, looking down and giving them a weak smile before dropping it again.

As the moments passed with them huddled and crouched in the alley, Mark became more and more concerned. Roger had started shifting restlessly, even telling them to let him up. "Let's just go home," he would say, acting as though he was fine, and Mark suspected that his friend's mind wasn't completely functional. He was obviously in some state of shock. They convinced him to remain lying down, but he'd continued to mumble soft words that were hard to hear.

Now, his movements had slowed, though his breath was still rapid. Any energy he'd had seemed to have drained from him, and his eyes eventually fluttered closed. Mark saw them open occasionally, but Roger would stare past them without focusing on anything. It wasn't normal behavior, and it scared him. His friend seemed to be drifting further and further away from them. He placed a hand on Roger's damp hair, worriedly watching his dull gaze wander. "Stay with me, Rog," he pleaded quietly. "Stay with me."

He attempted to keep Roger as dry and as warm as possible, but there wasn't much that he could do to stop the falling snow from landing on his body. Roger was losing color, becoming paler as his shirt became redder with blood. Collins' hands and sleeves were slick with the vital liquid, and Mark hadn't seen so much of it since… _Since April._ He almost threw up at the memory, and he took a few deep breaths as he tried to forget. But he really had no idea how much more Roger could lose. They needed help, and they needed it now.

Looking at the wound, Mark swallowed hard. Collins just didn't have the materials to stop the blood flow. He'd discarded the scarf as it was now completely useless, and Mark's flannel shirt was starting to look almost as bad. Joanne took off her outer sweater and handed it to Collins, which he promptly pressed down. Roger didn't flinch at the application of pressure like he'd done earlier.

Mimi suddenly shook the hand that was clasped in hers. "Roger?" she said, eyes wide as she stared at his face. "Roger." She reached out and tapped his cheek. Her voice was desperate, pleading with him to respond to her. She met Mark's eyes. "I think he's losing consciousness," she revealed, tears again sliding down her cheeks. She opened her fingers, and Roger's hand began slipping away until she caught it again.

Looking at his friend, Mark realized that Mimi was right. Roger's head was slowly rolling to the left, as if it took too much energy to keep it upright. His eyes were closed and it was almost as if he was falling into a normal sleep, but something told Mark that that wasn't the case.

He placed a gentle hand on Roger's cool forehead, almost pulling back when he felt the clamminess of his friend's skin. It scared him. Leaning down close as he spoke, he said, "Hey, Roger." There was no response. He tapped his friend roughly on the side of the head, feeling bad, but knowing that it was the only way to get his attention.

Roger eventually opened glazed eyes to meet Mark's.

"You have to stay awake," Mark told him firmly. He wished Roger wasn't looking at him so wearily. It made him feel like a nasty person for denying him the unconsciousness that he so desperately wanted.

His friend blinked heavily. "'M tired," he admitted in a confused tone, as though he didn't completely understand why.

"I know you are. But you need to wait a little longer."

"For what?" Roger asked, his brow furrowing. The blood loss was taking its toll, causing him to become disoriented.

"For the medics," Mark explained patiently. "They'll take you to a hospital, and they'll tell you when you can sleep."

Roger's eyes darkened at Mark's words, and he suddenly made a small move that looked like another attempt to sit up, but he was too weak to truly go anywhere. "No," he whined through his panting breaths. "Don't want to. Hate hospitals." He tried to push Collins away, apparently intent on leaving, but he had no use of his right arm and his left was still caught in Mimi's grasp, so his efforts were unsuccessful.

Collins ignored his interference, speaking gently as he pressed him back down to the ground. "You need to, Roger. It'll be fine. They'll help you feel better."

The musician shook his head. "No," he repeated quietly, but he sounded lost, like perhaps he didn't quite remember what he was denying.

"It's okay, Baby," Mimi said, smiling bravely. "You'll be fine."

Roger shifted his gaze back to Mark, who also gave an encouraging smile. "And we'll be with you," he added. "I promise."

The man settled down, his body taking over and pulling him towards unconsciousness again. Mark could see his eyes beginning to drift shut, and it scared the hell out of him. He didn't want his friend to fall asleep, because he was worried that he wouldn't wake up.

He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening once more. Was Roger really going to die right here in this alley? Was he really going to bleed out all over the snow? He shook his head. It seemed that Roger's blood was determined to somehow end his life.

_No! _he suddenly thought. What the fuck was he saying? Roger was alive, and he'd remain that way, but he needed help. Mark spoke up again.

"Hey, Roger, do you remember your new song tonight?"

The musician licked his dry lips. "Song?" he muttered, barely lucid.

"Yeah, your song," Mark repeated, speaking softly. "You wrote a song about our friendship."

Roger's eyes closed and his head began falling sideways again, but Mark stopped it with a gentle hand.

"Hey, you can't sleep now," he reminded firmly. "Look at me."

"'M tired," Roger repeated, but he did as he was told.

"The song that you sang for us tonight, you said it was a promise," Mark recounted, thinking back to the bar. Was that really only a couple hours ago? It felt like they'd been kneeling in this alley for a lifetime. "You said that it was a promise to be there for us, and to stick with us through the tough times." He shook his head, his blue eyes burning into Roger's green. "You're not getting out of it this easy. And right now, I need you to stick with me, okay?"

Roger's eyes flicked to Mimi, then Collins, down to Maureen and Joanne, and back to Mark again. Surprisingly, they seemed clear, as if he was actually aware of the words being spoken to him. "'M tryin'," he whispered.

Mark nodded, but he felt like crying. This was all too much. How could this be happening? Roger was lying on the ground in his own blood and there was nothing more they could do.

"I know you are," he said, his voice soft. "Just promise me that you'll keep trying."

Roger stared at him for a moment, and then gave a little nod. "Promise," he mumbled. Mark saw his fingers move slightly in Mimi's, readjusting his grip and squeezing weakly. She looked at Mark and gave a small nod of thanks.

Seconds later, Mark's ears perked up. "Do you hear that?" he asked, turning to Collins.

Collins nodded, keeping his eyes glued to his task. "Sirens."

He let out a deep breath. Finally, help was almost there.

"Hang in there, Roger," he said, before standing up and running to the entrance of the alley. slipping and sliding around in the wet snow. He stepped out onto the deserted street, glancing around for some indication of which way the ambulance would be coming from. The whooping sirens weren't far at all now.

Within a few seconds, he saw the ambulance turn the corner, lights flashing as they made their way down the street. They were followed by two black and white patrol cars and a small fire truck. Mark raised his arms and waved them back and forth in an effort to catch their attention in the dark. He must have been successful, because the ambulance slowed and pulled to a smooth stop at the curb.

The doors opened and the men in the front hopped out, quickly grabbing a large med kit and pulling a gurney out of the back before making their way towards him. Mark wanted to scold them for taking so long, but when he thought about it rationally, it had really only been a matter of minutes until they arrived.

"Where is he?" one of them questioned, and Mark pointed down the dim alley. The medics took off, and he called after them.

"Hey!" he said, and they turned around. "Just so you know, he's HIV positive." He hated that he had to say it, but he felt like it was the responsible thing to do. He wanted these people who were trying to help to be as safe as possible.

The men paused for a fraction of a second, and then shrugged. "We take precautions, no worries," the driver said before turning and jogging the rest of the way down the alley. "Let's go," he yelled over his shoulder, and Mark wondered if the man was talking to him. But turning his head he spotted two more people, a man and a woman, who had jumped out of the fire truck. They, too, were carrying large kits of supplies as they brushed past him.

Mark tagged along, jogging back towards his friends. He got there just as one medic, the passenger in the ambulance, put a hand on Collins' shoulder. "Stand back, I've got it," he said, kneeling down and reaching out his gloved hands to take the bloody compress from Collins.

Collins let go and scooted away from the man on the ground. He fell backwards into a sitting position, his knees pulled up slightly. He looked at his shaking hands, covered in blood, and swallowed. Mark put a hand on his shoulder, careful to avoid any red stains on the man's clothing.

While the team of medical personnel opened various first aid kits and bags of gauze, one medic, the driver, knelt down next to Mimi. "Miss, you need to step back and clean yourself up," he said, looking at the blood smeared onto her fingers.

She must have realized the reason for his advice because she said, "It's fine, I'm positive, too."

The man looked a little surprised, but his face changed to one of relief knowing that the disease couldn't affect her. He looked over to Collins, noting the blood coating his hands as well, and stared at him, a silent question in his eyes.

Collins nodded, confirming the man's suspicions.

"Okay," the man said, before looking at Mimi again. "But I really do need you to step back," he repeated gently. "Let us do our jobs."

She glanced at him before looking back at Roger, who was shivering harder than before even though he was still sweating. Mimi bit her lip, more tears welling up as she stared at the musician. "I love you," she said quietly before letting go of his hand and standing up to move away. She stood next to Maureen and Joanne silently, allowing them to put comforting hands on her back.

They watched in concern as the man applying pressure to the wound reached out for another compress, and another medic deftly lifted Roger's head to slip an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. The female medic pressed her fingers into Roger's left wrist.

"He's tachycardic," she revealed, letting go. She reached for a pair of scissors from the med kit and grabbed the bottom of Roger's shirt, slicing up the fabric towards his collar. She pulled the torn material off, giving her coworker better access to the wound. He lifted his hands just enough to allow the shirt to slide away, and the woman placed a blanket over Roger's body to keep him warm. Mark closed his eyes for a moment, trying to escape the sight of them rushing around his friend, their gloves already smeared with bright red blood.

The man who'd asked Mimi to move looked up at their little group clustered off to the side. "What's his name?" he questioned, motioning to their patient.

"Roger," they all answered in unison, nobody quite sure who he was addressing.

The medic turned back to his work and leaned over, speaking loudly to their friend. "Roger, can you open your eyes for me?" he asked, his tone kind. There was no response. This time, the medic tapped Roger's cheek firmly as he said, "Can you open your eyes, Roger?"

The contact finally caused Roger to open his eyes to slits, but Mark doubted that he was truly seeing anything.

"Good," the medic said with a smile. "My name's Bryan. We're going to take care of you. Can you tell me how you're feeling right now?" The man was helping his colleagues as he spoke, and Mark suspected that he didn't actually need an answer- he was really just trying to assess the awareness of his patient.

Roger didn't respond, his dull eyes staring blankly at some point in the black sky.

Bryan turned back to his team. "This guy's in shock," he told them. "He's lost a lot of blood." They nodded in agreement.

Mark envied their calm disposition, because he was back in panic mode. Shock? What did that mean exactly?

"Damn it," the other medic mumbled softly as he applied pressure to the wound. "We need to get him out of here. He nicked an artery or something."

Bryan nodded. They lowered a backboard to the ground next to him. "Okay, gently now," Bryan said, reaching across Roger's body to grab his right hip and the area around his ribs. Another medic placed his own hands underneath Roger's right shoulder, and a third, the woman, took his legs. They skillfully rolled him onto his left side and slid the board underneath him, then lowered him again. The medic applying pressure to the wound kept his hands clamped firmly over the compress the whole time.

They each grabbed onto a handle of the board and lifted it smoothly, transferring him onto the gurney waiting off to the side. Roger stirred slightly at the movement, though he didn't complain, and they quickly began maneuvering the gurney toward the ambulance. Mark watched them go with a heavy and aching heart.

The female medic approached the group, looking at them with kind eyes. "The good news is that the closest hospital is only ten minutes away," she explained gently. "We're going to get him there as fast as we can, and he'll be taken care of. Unfortunately, we can't allow anyone to ride with us because we need all the space, but you're more than welcome to meet us there." She turned and headed towards the waiting vehicle.

Mark watched them cart off his friend, a lump sitting uncomfortably in his throat. He turned to Mimi and grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her tight against his side. She pressed her face into him, careful not to touch him with her bloody hands, and Mark could feel tears soaking his sleeve. "We'll go see him," he whispered, rubbing her arm. "It's okay."

That wasn't true. It wasn't okay. Not even a little bit. This whole thing was beyond fucked up.

As he spoke, two of the four police officers, whom Mark had completely forgotten about, approached them. "I'm Officer O'Malley, and this is my partner Officer Barton," he pointed to the man next to him before reaching out to shake Mark's hand. "I know you want to go see your friend, but we need to take statements first to describe the incident." He looked at them all kindly. "Hopefully we can catch the guy who did this. Do you know if your friend saw his face?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't know," he said, not convinced that that was the most important thing right now. "Maybe." Suddenly he remembered his camera, which he'd dropped and left sitting in the snow. He hustled over to pick it up, avoiding the other policemen observing the scene, and scanned it nervously for damage. With a sigh of relief, he decided that it seemed to be okay. Attempting to dry it off on his tee-shirt, he walked back over to the officer.

"I don't know how much of it I got," he admitted, holding out the camera, "but I can give you that cut of the film reel if you need it."

The officer nodded. "Thank you," he said. "If you'll all just follow me, we'll make this quick and get you on your way."

Mark walked over and picked up Roger's guitar case, which had been discarded in the bustle of activity. He gently wiped the snow off of it and tagged after the cops.

The officers led them toward the patrol cars, and they each recounted the scene. The one that was most interesting was from the young woman, whose name, they learned, was Erin. She'd apparently been walking home as well and opted to take a shortcut. The man had grabbed her and pulled his knife, pushing her against the wall and demanding that she hand over her purse. She spoke about how Roger pulled him away from her and after that, Mark tuned out. He knew what happened next, and he didn't need to hear it again. He was getting incredibly impatient. They needed to go see Roger. Mark had promised him that they'd be with him at the hospital, and he planned to follow through on it.

He truly felt badly for Erin, though. She was shaken and upset by the whole ordeal, and they had almost completely ignored her while they took care of Roger, though that was understandable. When the cop finished writing down her statement and moved to Maureen, Mark approached her.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently.

She nodded, her brown eyes sad. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I feel like it's my fault your friend got hurt." Her face was guilty as she glanced at the others talking to the officers.

Mark shook his head. "It's not your fault. You didn't stab him."

"I know, I just…" She sighed. "Well, I want to thank him," she said, before adding, "to thank all of you, actually." She held out her hand. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't chased him away."

Mark reached out his right hand, his left still clutching Roger's guitar case, and gave hers a shake. "You're welcome."

His attention was diverted by the officer speaking behind him. "I think that's all," he said. "You're free to go. We don't have enough room to fit you in the cars, but we can find out where they took your friend and call a cab to get you there if you'd like."

Mark nodded, thrilled. They could finally get out of here. He turned to his friends, whose expressions matched his own—relief and worry, at the same time.

Officer O'Malley picked up the radio, calling in and talking to someone on the other end, while Officer Barton spoke to Erin. "I can take you home, Miss," he offered.

She looked at Mark. "Will you let me know what hospital he's at? I really would like to thank him."

Mark nodded. "Sure."

She pulled a pen and a slip of paper out of her purse, scribbling down some digits and handing it to him. "Here's my phone number. Just give me a call and let me know how he's doing. Please."

He nodded again.

She gave a sad smile and looked around at them all. "Thank you," she said sincerely, before following the officer to the car. He opened the passenger door and she disappeared into the vehicle.

Officer O'Malley approached them again. "We've got a cab coming. It should be here in minutes," he said. "I need to go talk to my colleagues." He pointed down the alley where the other two cops were. "Since this is a crime scene, we've got a team coming to process it. We'll be in touch with you at some point tomorrow." He smiled gently. "Good luck. We're rooting for Mr. Davis."

"Thanks," Mark said. Officer O'Malley headed back down the alley, and Mark watched as Officer Barton got into the car and carefully pulled onto the snowy road, disappearing into the night.

The deserted street was silent, the flashing lights of the remaining police vehicle and the fire truck casting blue, red, and white shadows on their faces. None of them spoke as they waited. They were emotionally exhausted, and worry ate at them like a parasite. Finally, Collins cleared his throat.

"He'll be okay," he said, not particularly speaking to anybody, but just talking. Mark wondered whether he was trying to convince them, or himself.

They were quiet again until Mark added, "Yeah, of course he will be." He couldn't handle thinking anything differently.

It wasn't long until a large yellow cab rounded the corner and pulled to a stop. They quickly piled in, shutting the doors and not looking back as they left the alley far behind them.


	14. Chapter 14

**Another chapter done! ****I can't even tell you guys how much fun I'm having writing this story! It's consuming me... Anyway, my thanks go out to you for reading :)**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 14**

March 28, 1992

Before the cab had come to a complete stop in front of the large hospital's emergency room, the doors were thrown open and Mark tumbled out, the others not far behind him. He snatched Roger's guitar off the floor of the car, Maureen threw some cash at the driver, and then they took off at a jog towards the entrance.

The sliding doors hissed open as they approached, and Mark barged his way in. He halted in the middle of the massive lobby, frantically looking around for someone he could talk to. He was semi-conscious of the strange and somewhat terrified looks that they were getting, particularly Collins and Mimi, who had blood still staining their hands. They'd attempted, with limited success, to scrub it off using snow, and they'd been incredibly careful in the cab to keep their fingers clasped tightly in their laps, not touching anything. They'd warned the driver and given him some extra cash to get his car cleaned, just in case.

Finally spotting the receptionist's desk, Mark hustled his way there, Roger's guitar held tightly in his right hand. The woman at the counter looked up as he approached. She was older, probably in her 40's, and gentle looking.

He practically screeched to a stop in front of her, panting slightly and heart beating wildly in his chest. "I'm looking for Roger Davis," he huffed out, eyes wide. "He was brought in a little while ago."

The woman nodded in understanding, pulling up something on her computer. "Yes, his records were just sent over. And are you family?" she asked, typing a few keys.

Without hesitation, Mark responded, "Yes."

"Okay, and your name, please?"

"Mark Cohen."

She looked up at him in confusion. "Cohen? So you're not actually related."

Mark paused for a minute before realizing that he'd just contradicted himself. He shook his head impatiently. "Not technically. He's a close friend."

She frowned a little bit, eyes skimming over the computer screen, but then her face smoothed out in satisfaction. "We can't generally give out information to people who aren't relatives, but it looks like you're his emergency contact, so you have access."

He nodded. He'd been Roger's contact ever since the first visit to the clinic when his friend was diagnosed with HIV.

She continued speaking. "Let me just find his information, and I'll see what I can tell you."

He nodded again, glancing quickly back at his friends. They were in a tight cluster behind him, completely ignoring the way that the entire room seemed to be focused on them. There were actually quite a few other visitors in the ER waiting room, though Mark really only looked at a couple of them. In one chair sat a middle aged man with a blood splotched towel wrapped around his hand. A young mother hugging a coughing child occupied another.

Mark was pulled back to reality when he heard the receptionist's voice. "Here we go," she said. "It looks like your friend was brought in about 25 minutes ago," she informed them. He was surprised that they'd been less than a half hour behind the ambulance. It felt like it had taken them forever to actually get there. "He had severe blood loss and penetrating trauma to the right chest." She glanced up at him, her eyes somewhat apologetic. "They took him into surgery almost immediately."

Mark's shoulders slumped. On the one hand, he was incredibly happy that Roger had even made it to the hospital. The cynical part of his mind had been so worried that they'd arrive only to find out that he'd bled to death in the ambulance. However, on the other hand, the fact that Roger had been rushed into surgery wasn't a comforting thought.

"So what does that mean?" he asked the woman, his eyes pleading for more information. "Is he going to be okay?"

She shrugged, shaking her head. "I'm not in a position to answer that," she said sadly. "I'm sorry."

Mark sighed in frustration, running a hand down his face. "Well, is there someone who would know?" He tried to keep his voice reasonable and polite, but he was worried sick and he needed someone to tell him what the hell was going on.

She answered him kindly, "I'll send for someone to talk to you as soon as they can."

He sighed again, bowing his head in resignation to the fact that they'd be subjected to more waiting. Looking up, he said, "Alright. Thank you."

She nodded, a sad half-smile on her lips. "Sure. If you'd like to wait right over there," she pointed to a little cluster of available chairs isolated on the right side of the room, "I'll update you as soon as possible."

He nodded. "Okay." Suddenly, he thought of another important question. "Is there somewhere that they can wash off?" he asked, motioning to Mimi and Collins. The receptionist peeked around him, and her eyes widened at the bloodstains covering his friends.

"Of course." She called to a young woman in blue scrubs walking behind the desk. "Katie, take these people to get cleaned up, would you? Maybe get them some new clothes," she added, spying Collins' shirt sleeves.

Katie nodded and led Mimi and Collins into the back. Mark was confident that they'd be careful about where the blood ended up.

"And did you need a different shirt?" the receptionist asked gently.

He was confused by her question for a moment. _What's wrong with my shirt? _He looked down, understanding when he caught sight of his clothing. His white tee was soaked. The falling snowflakes from standing outside had melted into the material, leaving it plastered to his skin. He hadn't noticed it before, and at the moment, he had bigger things to worry about.

Shaking his head, he responded, "I'm fine."

She gave him a concerned look. "Why don't I give you something anyway, in case you change your mind?" She rose from her seat, disappearing into the back, and returned with a blue scrub top, handing it him. "There you go."

"Thanks." He turned around, coming face to face with Maureen and Joanne, who'd been waiting while he talked to the woman. "Come on," he said, putting a gentle hand on each of their backs and leading them across the waiting room.

They sat down in the wide, barely cushioned chairs. Mark threw the scrub top onto the floor at his feet, placing Roger's guitar next to it, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face into his hands.

He couldn't believe what was happening. It had been just an average day, with no hint that something like this would occur. He wished that they could rewind the last 12 hours and go back in time to that afternoon, when he and Roger had been hanging out and playing guitar. That had been fun and relaxing, a far cry from the terror and the stress that had overtaken him in the last hour.

He remained lost in his own thoughts for about 10 minutes, until he heard footsteps approaching. His head shot up in desperate hope that it would be a doctor, and he became slightly disappointed when he saw that it was only Mimi and Collins returning. Their hands were now spotless, and they were wearing matching scrub tops in place of their bloody shirts. Mark gave them a little nod of acknowledgement. Collins took a seat on Mark's right, and Mimi planted herself across from him next to Maureen and Joanne.

"Any word yet?" Collins inquired, leaning forward and copying Mark's pose.

He shook his head. "Nothing," he responded sadly.

Collins blew out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's going to make it," he said softly, speaking only to Mark. Across from them, Joanne and Maureen were comforting Mimi. "He's too goddamn stubborn not to."

Mark nodded, swallowing hard. He had to believe those words, because he wasn't quite sure how to handle anything else.

Something caught his eye, and he glanced sideways. Collins' hands were clasped tightly, fingers interlocked, but there was an object held between them. Mark stared, trying to figure out what it was. The man must have seen his curious glance because he opened his fists to reveal what he was holding.

A bottle of nail polish. It was bright blue, and Mark immediately recognized it. It had been Angel's favorite- she'd worn it almost all the time.

Collins smiled sadly, his brown eyes fond with memory, and he shrugged a little bit. "It's not much, but it's as close as I can get to holding her hand," he confessed, squeezing the bottle tightly once more.

Mark nodded in understanding. It made sense, that Collins carried a little piece of Angel to remind him of her. He looked down at Roger's guitar case sitting innocently at his feet. He hoped to God that he wouldn't have to start carrying it around in an effort to remember another lost friend.

* * *

They'd been sitting in silence for over an hour. Mark alternated between staring at his watch, the ground between his shoes, and looking up at his friends, eyes darting between each of them. He wondered what they were thinking, and if they were constantly replaying the scene in the alley like he was. It was making him sick, to see it repeatedly in his mind's eye, but he couldn't help it. It had been one of the scariest moments in his life. It still was. And it would be until they got some good news.

A deep voice interrupted his thoughts. "Is one of you Mark Cohen?"

His head shot up to meet the gaze of a handsome, middle-aged man in green scrubs and a long white lab coat. Standing up quickly, he answered, "That's me." He heard his friends rising from their chairs as well, too anxious to remain seated.

"I'm Doctor Marshall," the man said, reaching out to shake Mark's hand. "I'm one of the doctors treating Mr. Davis."

Mark nodded, swallowing hard as he gathered up the courage to ask the next question. "How is he?" _Cliché,_ he thought quickly. That was the most clichéd question in a situation like this. And though he knew the doctor would tell them anyway, he couldn't help but ask it.

Dr. Marshall clasped his hands in front of him, his face composed. "We just finished up in surgery a short while ago, so he's been transferred to a recovery room," the man explained, looking at them kindly. "Your friend is one incredibly lucky guy."

That surprised Mark. 'Lucky' was not a word that he would ever, ever use to describe Roger. In fact, sometimes it seemed that the exact opposite fit him much better.

"We were worried about him when he was brought in," Dr. Marshall admitted. "He'd already lost a significant amount of blood. He was in shock, and his blood pressure was extremely low."

Mark's palms were sweating in his clenched fists. Where was Roger's 'luck' in that? He stared at the man's face, trying to gain a clue as to whether or not the rest of the news was bad or good.

"I'm told that you all were with him when it happened?" Dr. Marshall questioned.

They nodded. The medics that brought Roger in must have relayed that information.

"Okay. Well as you know, the knife entered beneath his clavicle, or his collarbone." He pointed to the spot on his own body where the injury had occurred. "It did nick an artery, which is why the bleeding was so severe. We're very fortunate that it didn't sever it completely, or he most definitely would have bled out before help could get there."

Mark swallowed, remembering all too well the pool of blood that had gathered on Roger's chest before falling downwards into the cold snow.

"We've managed to repair the artery and stabilize his vitals, but like I said, the blood loss was substantial. We're giving him transfusions and fluids to replace the lost liquids, but his body is very weak right now, and we'll need to keep an eye out for any possible organ damage."

Mark's eyes widened. _Organ damage?_ He didn't like the sound of that.

The doctor must have seen his reaction. "When the body loses too much blood, it can't keep things functioning," he explained, "so it starts shutting down. His organs aren't working perfectly right now, but they're also not failing, and we expect them to improve as we continue to treat him. Any questions so far?" he asked gently. Mark shook his head silently, and the man continued. "Now, there is an extremely large bundle of nerves located just beneath the clavicle, called the Brachial Plexus," he told them. "We can't be 100 percent positive, but as far as we can tell, the knife missed those major nerves." He smiled in encouragement, and Mark appreciated that. It was much easier to keep a positive attitude if the doctor was smiling. "The blade went in high, and it actually hit his clavicle first." He looked Mark directly in the eyes, his gaze gentle but serious. "The force caused a fracture, but to be honest, it probably saved his arm. The bone caused the blade to change direction and enter at such an angle that it avoided the vital areas of that bundle." The doctor paused, preparing them for his next words. "He's lucky, because the knife would have destroyed those nerves beyond repair, and his right arm would have been almost completely paralyzed."

Mark's eyes widened. He heard small shocked gasps from the girls, as well as Collins mumble, "Shit." Mark agreed with the man. He didn't know how Roger would have survived without the use of his arm. He never would have been able to play his guitar again, and that would have devastated him.

The doctor nodded, reading the relief on their faces. "Like I said, we can't be positive until he can answer some questions for us, but we're very confident that his arm function will be good. He may have some loss of feeling for a short time, but ideally, it should disappear as the injury heals. There was obviously some damage to the muscle tissue, which we fixed up as best we could. With rest and perhaps physical therapy, he should gain that strength back." Dr. Marshall stared at them patiently, allowing the information to sink in.

Mark absorbed the doctor's last few sentences in a mild state of detachment. He hoped that he understood correctly. "So," he said slowly, breaking the silence, "Roger's going to be okay, then?" He needed a straight answer, without all the side notes.

"It's very hard to say this early," Dr. Marshall admitted, looking at him seriously. "Like I said, he lost a large amount of blood, and his vitals aren't normal. His blood pressure and his body temperature are still very low, but his heart rate and his respiratory rate are quite high."

Mark closed his eyes.

"But," Dr. Marshall continued, "so far, we see no signs of organ failure, and his vitals have definitely improved since they brought him in." He smiled a little bit. "He's stable right now. And we expect him to continue to improve."

"So what now?" Mark questioned half-heartedly, not quite sure where to go from here. "When can we see him?"

"Like I said, Mr. Davis will be in recovery for a while, and then he'll be taken to a private room afterwards. He's going to be asleep for several hours while his body recovers from the anesthesia and the trauma." Dr. Marshall looked between them all, studying their faces. "Look," he said, his gaze soft and kind, "my advice to you is to get some sleep, as well." He glanced at his watch. "It's 3:00 in the morning, and you've obviously had a long day. You're all exhausted."

Mark began shaking his head immediately, opening his mouth to disagree. How could they sleep now? They couldn't. The doctor cut him off.

"You don't need to leave," he reassured them, "but it's going to be a few hours until we can allow visitors. You might as well make the most of them. Stay here and try to catch a nap."

Mark gazed back at the man. He knew that the doctor was making sense, but it seemed so wrong to sleep at a time like this.

"I'll come and get you as soon as you can see him," Dr. Marshall promised.

Mark glanced back at his friends. They had disappointed looks on their faces as well, but Collins caught his eye, giving him a nod.

"Okay," Mark agreed reluctantly.

Dr. Marshall smiled. "Good," he said. "I need to go see to some patients, but I'll find you later."

Mark nodded in satisfaction as the doctor disappeared into the depths of the hospital.

He spun around, meeting the eyes of his friends. He collapsed into his chair, leaning back and resting his head against the white wall behind him.

"I want to see him now," Mimi said quietly, sitting in her own chair. It was the first time she had spoken since they'd arrived at the hospital.

"I know," Collins responded, "but the doctor was right. You need to get some sleep," he told her gently. "We all do. If we want to be able to take care of Roger, we need to take care of ourselves as well."

Mark was again impressed by Collins' control and his calm demeanor. The man had a knack for remaining logical and keeping himself collected when the people around him struggled to. Something about his personality made him extremely good at it.

Maureen and Joanne took their seats next to Mimi, and Collins took his beside Mark.

"I guess we wait," Maureen said softly.

Mark nodded his head slowly. "I guess we wait."

* * *

Mark was brought back to consciousness by a hand shaking his shoulder and a deep voice in his ear. "Mr. Cohen," it said. He opened his eyes, squinting at the sudden abundance of light. His vision cleared slightly, and he was faced with Dr. Marshall's brown gaze.

The man smiled at him. "You can see your friend now, if you'd like."

Mark suddenly became much more awake. He sat up in his chair, his eyes widening. "We can? What time is it?"

Dr. Marshall nodded. "It's almost 10:00 in the morning."

Mark was shocked. He hadn't even meant to fall asleep in the first place, but he had- for almost six hours. He glanced around, looking at his friends sprawled in various uncomfortable positions across their chairs. They'd probably dozed off around the same time that he did, not able to ignore their sheer exhaustion brought on by worry.

He glanced back at the doctor. "Yeah, we want to see him." He quickly roused his friends with solid shakes of their shoulders, and they immediately stood up to follow.

Dr. Marshall led them down a long hallway. It reminded Mark of going to see his father after his heart attack. He was struck by the same discomfort that he had felt then, and that same desire to be as far away from the place as possible. Some of it came from his general dislike of hospitals, and some of it stemmed from worry about what he'd find when they reached Roger's room.

They eventually paused outside of a door, and the doctor turned to face them. "He hasn't woken up yet," he said, "and we're not sure when he will. It could be three hours, or it could be twelve. We'll just have to wait and see."

_If he wakes up at all, _Mark thought darkly, and then almost slapped himself. He couldn't be thinking like that. Instead, he nodded in understanding, impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wanted to get it over with already. He couldn't stand anymore waiting.

Finally, Dr. Marshall slowly opened the door, peeking inside before pushing it the rest of the way. Mark and the others followed close behind him as he entered the room.

Again, his memory flashed back to visiting his father in the hospital the month before. It was a similar situation, but this time, the hand gently guiding him was Collins', not Roger's. His eyes immediately focused on the bed in the center, and he stopped in his tracks.

Roger was lying flat, his eyes closed and his dark lashes showing in stark contrast against his much too-pale skin. An oxygen mask covered most of his face, and it fogged up slightly with every shallow breath. His right arm was tucked tightly against his side, and beneath the loose, low-cut collar of the hospital gown, Mark could see thick white bandages wrapped across his chest and over his right shoulder. There were various wires and tubes that ran from the monitors mounted above his head to seemingly every part of his body, and Mark's eyes immediately locked on the almost completely full bag of blood dangling off of a stand next to him. It ran down a thin tube that ended in a needle disappearing into Roger's arm. His other arm was attached to an IV containing a liquid that Mark didn't recognize.

The doctor walked up to the bed, glancing at the chart attached to the bottom before looking back at them. "Come on in," he invited, noticing their hesitation.

Mimi needed no further encouragement. She moved forward quickly, stepping around Mark and heading towards the opposite side of the bed. She slowly reached for Roger's left hand, staring at his face and gently sliding her fingers between his. She brushed a palm over his forehead, smoothing back the disheveled blonde hair. It was a touching sight, in a way, though the situation was far from desirable. Mark followed Mimi's lead, leaning Roger's guitar against the wall.

Dr. Marshall smoothly placed the chart down again before turning towards them. "As I'm sure you can imagine, he's still very weak and his body needs rest. Someone will be coming in frequently to monitor his blood pressure and his heart rate." He pointed to the machine beeping too quickly beside the bed. "The oxygen helps his heart circulate the remaining blood. It's already working too hard, and we're trying to take some of the strain off of it." The doctor then walked around Mark and stood by Roger's head. He gently pulled at the collar of the gown, revealing the bandages beneath. "The wound may have some residual bleeding, so we'll keep an eye on that, as well, but it looks good right now. Also," Dr. Marshall added, turning to them with a serious gaze, "we'll be watching him very carefully for any signs of infection. Knife wounds are big attractions for bacteria, and there's no telling how dirty the blade was when it went in. Because he's HIV positive, we need to be particularly cautious with that. His immune system is already compromised, and he'll be even more susceptible while his body is recuperating."

Mark nodded, a little overwhelmed by the whole thing. He just wanted Roger to wake up and laugh at him for worrying so much. It was too hard to see him lying there, pale and small-looking as he slept. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head to meet Dr. Marshall's kind eyes.

"I know it doesn't seem like it, but he's really doing quite well, especially for the severity of his injury," the man encouraged, apparently reading Mark's mind. He looked around at them all, trying to send them some level of comfort. "Before you start worrying too much, give him some time to rest. He might even surprise us and wake up in the next few hours." The doctor pointed to a button on the side of the bed. "If he does wake, just press that. It'll call a nurse. And remember that we've got him on morphine and he's still got anesthesia in his system, so he'll be groggy and confused. Be patient with him."

Mark nodded again. He was overwhelmed and he didn't quite know how to deal with the situation at the moment, so he elected to just keep all the words inside.

The doctor watched them carefully. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "I know it's hard when things like this happen to people you care about. And I know you feel useless because there's nothing you can do to help."

Mark looked up quickly and met the doctor's eyes. He could swear that the man had some strange power allowing him to see his thoughts.

Dr. Marshall continued. "The best thing you can do right now is just be here for him. He's going to be tired, and weak, and in pain, and he's going to want to see his friends." The doctor smiled once more. "I'll be back later," he said before quickly turning and leaving the room.

They were left in silence, the only sounds being the beeping of the monitors as they did their jobs. Mark sighed. He tentatively reached out a hand and gently touched Roger's arm, cringing at the coolness of his skin, though it was better than it had been in the alley. He'd been so cold the last time that Mark had seen him. So cold, and slowly becoming more lifeless in front of their eyes.

Collins walked over to the edge of the room, grabbing a couple of the wooden chairs that were pushed against the wall and placing them next to Mimi, then pulling two more around to Mark's side of the bed. They each took a seat, and Maureen perched perfectly on the small armrest of Joanne's chair.

"I hate this," she stated quietly, her brow furrowed as she stared at Roger.

"Me too," Mark agreed, and they fell silent. The constant beeping of the heart monitor composed the soundtrack to their vigil, and Mark's ears locked in on the sound. As long as he could hear that robotic little beep, Roger's heart continued beating, albeit weakly, and much too fast.

_Roger's poor heart,_ he thought. How much more abuse could it take? That beating muscle in his friend's chest had been batted around a few too many times in his life. The abandonment by his father, the death of Kerzman and then April, the pain of withdrawal, the fear and utter hopelessness that came with the disease... and everything in between. And now his already well-beaten heart had to deal with some asshole who'd decided it would be a good idea to fucking s_tab_ him. Mark closed his eyes as he thought about it, and then opened them again a moment later. If Roger's heart could get him through the shitload of baggage he already carried, then it must be strong. It would get him through this as well.

"He just needs to wake up already," Mimi spoke, tears in her eyes.

Collins chimed in quietly. "C'mon, give him a break. You know how the guy loves his beauty sleep." He smiled a little bit, though it wasn't completely genuine.

There were small snorts of agreement, and Mark's lips twitched just slightly as he looked fondly at Roger, who remained oblivious to them. "Normally I'd hit him with a pillow to wake him, but I think that's probably frowned upon here," he quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Soft chuckles passed between them for a couple short seconds as they let out some of the emotion, but they quickly died down and a solemn cloud settled once again. There wasn't much to laugh about, and gazing around, he observed the lost expressions on the faces of the others as they studied their injured friend. Something about Roger brought out a protective instinct in all of them. Maybe it was the fact that he just seemed so damn helpless sometimes, or maybe it was because they knew he'd been through so much already. But for whatever reason, they felt it was their responsibility to watch out for him, and to keep him safe in a world that seemed determined to drag him down. And this time, they'd failed.

"Come on, Roger," Mark whispered quietly as he stared at his friend's face. "Wake up. Please, just wake up."

His pleas fell on deaf ears, and they waited in tense silence while Roger slept on.


	15. Chapter 15

******Hope everyone is still enjoying this! If you get the chance, I'd love to hear what you like and what you don't! ****Here we go :)**  


**Chapter 15**

March 28, 1992

At half past six, Mark's prayers were finally answered.

They were quietly sitting in the hospital room, slumped sideways in their chairs and repeatedly catching each other's eyes before looking towards their friend. That was all they'd been doing the entire day- just staring between each other and Roger. At one point, the policemen from the night before had come by to check on the 'victim', and they'd spoken to the doctor while Mark and his friends had stayed in the hospital room. They'd been hoping that Roger had gotten a look at the guy's face, but if he had, he wasn't able to say. The cops promised to keep working to find the man, but it was tough without a description.

The afternoon had continued to pass quietly until finally, when Mark was just about ready to throw something through the window in frustration, Mimi shot straight up in her chair. "His hand moved!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement.

Mark perked up as well, leaning forward and looking at Roger's face. His eyebrows were twitching slightly while his forehead creased.

"Roger," Mimi said, tapping his hand gently. "Wake up, Baby." Roger's eyes moved beneath the lids, and he took in a deep breath, wincing. "Wake up," Mimi repeated, giving his hand a little shake.

It seemed to take forever, but it was really only seconds before Roger's eyes slowly opened, revealing the tired green orbs.

Mimi laughed, a huge smile lighting up her face. Mark grinned widely and hurriedly reached out to press the call button to alert a nurse. Collins leaned forward in his chair, his white teeth gleaming brightly, and Maureen and Joanne both stood up, leaning on the end of the bed, their faces filled with happiness and relief.

"Look who's up," Collins teased, fondly gazing at his friend. He spoke quietly in an effort to avoid overwhelming the man.

Roger's eyes shifted towards the large professor, the lids only half open. Mark wondered what he was thinking, and whether he was aware of what happened. More than anything, he wanted Roger to say something- to tell them that he was fine. But Roger hadn't shown any signs of recognition.

"How are you doing?" Collins asked, his eyes regarding the musician warily. It looked as though he was thinking along the same lines as Mark. "We were worried about you."

Roger merely stared at Collins, blinking slowly. Mark wished he'd just answer already- prove to them that he was okay, that he knew who they were, that he was still _Roger_. It was weird seeing him just lie there, his eyes blank as he looked at them. However, Mark felt a little guilty when he recalled what the doctor had said. _Be patient_ _with him_.

Mimi was again looking at Roger nervously, running a hand over his hair and down the side of his face, taking care to avoid displacing the oxygen mask.

Finally, Roger seemed to register his surroundings, and a light sparked in his eyes that had previously been absent. His attention was drawn by the hand stroking his face, and his eyes slid over to Mimi. To everyone's delight, he gave a weak smile barely visible underneath the plastic covering his mouth.

"Hey," he croaked out. His voice was little more than a whisper and made even quieter by the mask, but it was enough.

Mimi laughed through her tears. "Hey," she responded with a huge grin. She sniffled a little bit, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

Roger watched her do it, his eyelids still heavy. "Don't cry," he whispered, and his words were reminiscent of earlier, in the alley. Mark wondered whether he remembered that, or if it had been mere coincidence that he'd said it again.

"I can't help it," she said, more tears spilling down her cheeks. "I love you so much." She leaned down, careful to avoid any wires or tubes, and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead before pulling away.

"Love you, too," he answered quietly. He just barely squeezed her hand again, wincing as he turned his head to look at the others. His eyes moved between them all before he smirked a little bit.

"No kisses?" he joked weakly. His words were slurring, probably from exhaustion and medication.

Mark caught Roger's gaze, but he didn't have the energy to laugh. His body was almost limp with relief. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, placing a hand on his friend's messy hair and dropping his head wearily. His forehead gently touched the side of Roger's, and he was once again struck by the coolness of his friend's skin. He took comfort in the contact as the tension slowly drained out of him. The soft puffs of Roger's breath against the mask soothed him, and he took a few deep breaths himself.

"Holy shit, Roger," he finally said very softly, his mouth almost directly next to Roger's ear. "Holy shit." He couldn't really think of what he was trying to say at the moment, and his relief was almost debilitating. Someone put a gentle hand on his back and rubbed lightly, and he recognized the touch as Collins'. He let out one last shaky breath and raised his head slightly, placing a brotherly kiss of his own on Roger's forehead before sitting up. He knew that the others would never tease him for the show of affection.

Roger's tired gaze focused on him as he straightened, and his green eyes were weary and pained and reassuring all at the same time. It was almost as if he was trying to rid Mark of his worry with just a glance.

The door opened and a nurse smoothly stepped into the room. She was a fairly young woman, probably in her mid-thirties, and she smiled gently as she approached. Following her was Dr. Marshall, whose kind stare landed on them almost immediately. "Hello, Mr. Davis," he greeted in a pleasant voice, his warm brown eyes wrinkled in a smile. "I'm Doctor Marshall." He reached out and gently slid the oxygen mask off of Roger's face. The edges left faint indentations in his pale skin. "That'll be a little easier to talk. How are you feeling?"

"Good," Roger replied quietly, but it wasn't convincing, and Mark knew that it wasn't true. He could tell that Roger was hurting. He hadn't even attempted to move his right arm, and he was obviously worn out. His breaths were still shallow, and he could hardly speak more than a word at a time.

Dr. Marshall let out a little chuckle. "You'd be surprised how often people say that when they're actually feeling awful." Walking over to Roger's bedside, he said, "Let's see how you're really doing." They all stood up, pulling their chairs out of the way and moving to the side of the room. Mimi let go of Roger's hand reluctantly, her fingers unlocking themselves from his and setting his hand on the bed.

As the nurse began to scribble down the readings on the monitors, Dr. Marshall took another peek at the bandages wrapped over Roger's chest. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked curiously.

Roger's eyebrows furrowed in thought as he tried to recall the scenario. "Sorta," he answered in a scratchy voice that made Mark's own throat hurt. Dr. Marshall held a cup of water from the nightstand up to his patient's lips. Roger looked at it blankly for a moment before opening his mouth and allowing the man to tip a small amount inside. Some of it dribbled onto his chin, and the doctor gently wiped it away.

"Okay, what do you remember?" he asked while Roger swallowed.

"Fightin' with the guy. Hittin' the wall 'n fallin' over." His slightly too fast breathing was making the already short and clipped sentences seem even more broken. Either his brain or his mouth was too weak to completely form the words. His forehead creased and he squinted slightly as he pushed himself to remember more. "Mark…"

He trailed off. Mark saw something flash through Roger's eyes that confused him, and he couldn't place it. He waited eagerly for him to finish, curious as to what he was going to say.

Roger swallowed and changed his train of thought, leaving Mark hanging. "Collins pressed down. Bits 'n pieces after that." He closed his eyes and frowned, obviously displeased with himself.

The doctor nodded as he carefully placed the oxygen back over his face. "That's understandable," he reassured. "You've actually recalled quite a bit more than many trauma patients do. Some more of it may come back to you later, or it may not. Either way, there's no need to worry."

Roger gave a tiny nod.

Dr. Marshall smiled kindly. "Let me fill you in. You were stabbed in the upper right chest, very near your shoulder," he explained gently. "The blade fractured your collarbone and nicked an artery, causing severe blood loss, and you were well into the stages of hypovolemic shock when they brought you in. Part of the reason that you don't remember everything is that you were either unconscious or close to it from the lack of blood." With a glance towards the group of them off to the side, he said, "Your friends did a nice job to control the bleeding until the medics got there. You're lucky you had them with you."

Mark closed his eyes briefly. He was trying not to think about the scene yet again. Instead, he focused on the doctor's words, and the fact that Roger was awake and alive and laying right in front of them.

"I know," Roger answered quietly, guiltily shifting his gaze over to them.

"We took you into surgery and fixed up the artery and the surrounding tissue," Dr. Marshall continued. "It took a while to stabilize your vitals. Your blood pressure is still low, so we'll keep an eye on that as well as your heart rate. You're experiencing a slightly increased respiration rate because your heart is working hard to pump a lower amount of blood, and it needs a lot of oxygen to do that. We'll keep the mask on for a while and switch you over to a nasal cannula when it settles down a bit more. We gave you multiple units of blood when you were brought in, and we've been giving you more while you've been resting," he added, pointing to the bags hanging from the stand next to him. "Unfortunately, transfusing the blood won't immediately fix the side effects, especially for something as severe as you experienced. They'll hang around for a while." He smiled kindly down at Roger. "I know that was a lot of information, but do you have any questions?"

"One," Roger responded quietly. "My guitar?"

The doctor's eyes widened in surprise, not expecting the random inquiry, but Mark chuckled. He grabbed the instrument from where it leaned against the wall. "Right here, Rog," he answered, carrying it over and setting it beside the bed. "Safe and sound."

Roger glanced at it, his eyes warming significantly, but the tone of his response didn't exactly match. "Thanks," he said dully, his gaze meeting Mark's for only a moment before he looked away.

Mark frowned. That seemed strange. It wasn't as if he cared, but he'd expected his friend to be much more thankful.

The doctor smirked and gave a little nod of acceptance. "Any other questions?" he asked, and the musician carefully shook his head. "Okay." Dr. Marshall shifted slightly, taking a step closer to the bed. "The injury was very close to some major nerves that control your arm, so I want to check it out very briefly."

Roger licked his dry lips, nodding once in uncertainty. He seemed worried, like maybe he didn't want to know if there was something wrong.

Dr. Marshall must have noticed, because he tried to comfort the man. "Relax," he said. "A little loss of feeling is normal. Those nerves run the length of your arm, and the muscle around them has been damaged, so they'll be tender." He smiled. "From what we could see, there isn't anything to worry about. This is all standard procedure." The doctor reached out and placed two fingers into Roger's right hand. "I don't want you to move your shoulder," he instructed, speaking very clearly. "You need to keep it as still as possible. I just want you to squeeze my fingers as tightly as you can."

Roger did as he was told, his hand flexing slowly at his side. His grasp was very weak, but Mark supposed that was to be expected.

The doctor nodded. "Good," he praised. "Do you feel any numbness or tingling in your fingers or your wrist?"

"Little."

The doctor nodded. "Now, again, without moving your shoulder, can you bend your elbow?"

Slowly, Roger's forearm lifted off of the bed, but it didn't make it very far. His teeth clenched at the movement as though maybe something didn't feel so great, and after just a few inches, his arm started shaking and dropped back into the sheets. His forehead creased and he tried again, resulting in the same amount of success, and the same pained reaction. He swallowed hard, and Mark could tell that he was beginning to panic. Even the heart monitor began picking up ever so slightly as his pulse increased to a faster pace than it already was.

Dr. Marshall placed a large hand on his wrist, stopping him from giving it another shot. "Don't overdo it," he warned kindly. "Pain is the body's way of telling us to stop." He removed his hand. "Like I said, the muscle tissue around those nerves is pretty torn up, even if the nerves themselves aren't, so movement will be tough for a while. Not to mention that you're still very, very weak. We'll keep an eye on it, but I'm not worried."

Roger's tense body relaxed at the man's words.

"I think that's enough for right now," Dr. Marshall concluded with a comforting smile, obviously not wanting to put his patient through too much strenuous activity. "I'm going to leave you in the capable hands of your friends for a while. Get some sleep."

Roger acknowledged the man with a nod, tiredly watching the doctor spin around and follow the nurse towards the door. He paused and turned to look back at Roger, raising an eyebrow. "I'm impressed, Mr. Davis," he admitted. "You had us worried for a while, but so far, you seem to have made it through this ordeal without serious complications." He shrugged. "There must be a guardian angel up there that really likes you," he finished with a smile, and glanced up at the ceiling before giving them a wink.

_A guardian Angel?_ Mark's eyes widened at the doctor's word choice, and he swiveled his head around to look at his friends. Their reactions were similar to his own, except for Collins, who was looking at Roger knowingly. His dark eyes were wrinkled in a grin.

Roger just nodded, his own eyes meeting Collins' with a smirk. "Somethin' like that," he confirmed quietly.

With a final nod and a promise to check in later, the medical personnel exited the room and left them alone once more. As they resumed their seats at the bedside and settled in, Roger watched them silently, though he seemed to be avoiding Mark's gaze. He let out a small sigh, wincing as the movement of his chest pulled at the wound, but quickly wiped his face of the pain. Very slowly, he lifted his healthy arm and reached for the oxygen mask, pulling it off his face and letting it hang under his chin.

"Hey, Rog, leave it," Maureen chided. "It'll help."

Roger ignored her. He licked his dry lips and spoke up, his words still slurred and lazy, but understandable, nonetheless. "'M sorry," he said, gazing around at them all, the guilty expression back on his features. "Didn't mean t' worry you."

"We know," Mimi acknowledged, resuming the motion of stroking his hair. It seemed to be as much for her comfort as it was for his.

"Didn't wanna see her hurt," Roger added, as though he felt that he needed to defend his actions.

"You did a good job," Collins assured him. "She's a little shaken up, but she's fine." That reminded Mark that he was supposed to call Erin. She'd want to know how Roger was doing.

Roger's eyes settled on Collins for a long moment, studying him carefully. "Thank you," he finally said quietly. He didn't need to specify what it was for—they all knew.

Collins placed a hand gently on Roger's arm, his gaze burning into the musician's. "You know I love you, man, and I'd do anything for you," he responded honestly, "but please, please never make me do that again." His voice shook with an uncharacteristic loss of composure. The man had been so calm throughout the whole ordeal that it was easy to pretend it hadn't disturbed him, but Mark knew that was far from the truth. Collins had been forced to take charge and keep the rest of them calm while literally holding one of his best friend's lives in his hands. If Mark was honest with himself, it had probably scarred the professor more than the rest of them. The sense of responsibility the man must have felt was beyond his comprehension.

"I won't," Roger promised, and then the corner of his mouth turned up in a semi-smirk. "Kinda countin' on this bein' a one-time thing," he added wryly.

Mark snorted out an agreement. Briefly, he wondered whether Roger was actually unlucky enough to get stabbed twice in his lifetime, then he shook his head. He had absolutely no desire to find out.

"Don't have t' stay," Roger mumbled, addressing them all, though Mark again felt like Roger was purposely avoiding his gaze. Why was that? He hadn't acted like that before the doctor had been in...

"'M fine," Roger continued. Nobody made a move to get up. "'M serious," he added, forcing a little of his trademark stubbornness into his voice, but it was pointless. The word was so slurred that it took them all a second to understand.

Mimi gave a strange little smile and shook her head, looking at Roger with a loving gaze. "Roger, just stop," she said kindly, laughing a bit. "Just shut up and let us sit here with you. This is where we want to be." Roger gave quite an impressive eye-roll for the state he was in, and Mimi giggled. "I will leave you alone for a minute though," she said before standing up. "I need to go to the bathroom." With the oxygen removed, she took the opportunity to place her lips against Roger's gently, though he couldn't respond to her kiss through his shallow breaths. She smiled and rubbed his cheek. "Be back in a few."

"I need to go, too," Joanne chimed in.

"Same," Maureen added, getting up to follow them. The girls paused in front of the door and looked back, focusing on Roger. They didn't seem to want to leave.

"What?" he grumbled, staring them down as best he could. He was getting grumpier the longer he stayed awake, and Mark found it amusing.

They shrugged, and Maureen spoke up. "Nothing," she said with a grin. "Just glad that you're okay." Without waiting for a response, she turned around and ushered the other two women out of the room.

Roger failed to keep the annoyed expression on his face. His eyes warmed a bit and he gave a little huff of laughter, but quickly decided against it when the pain set in.

"You okay?" Mark asked with a concerned frown.

"Yeah." Again, he didn't look at Mark when he said it, and Mark was beginning to worry that he'd done something to upset his friend.

"C'mon, Rog," Collins said, looking at him with a disbelieving frown. "It's just the boys now. You can tell us how you're really feeling."

Roger swallowed. "'S really not too bad 'less I move it," he said truthfully. "Mostly numb. 'M just tired."

Mark nodded, attempting to engage the man in conversation once more. "The doctor said you would be for a while."

Roger frowned, glancing around the room. "Time is it?" he wondered, not particularly addressing anybody.

"6:40," Mark answered with a peek at his watch. "You've been asleep for almost 16 hours."

Roger's eyes widened. "'S Saturday, right?"

"Yeah."

Roger closed his eyes, processing the whole thing, but they sprang back open again. "Shit!" he exclaimed, though it wasn't incredibly loud. "The show! Haven't told 'em I won't be there!" He was getting abnormally upset by the situation, and he looked as though he was about ready to try to sit up in bed.

"Relax," Collins soothed before Roger could move too much. "I know Jeff's number. I'll go call him right now and let him know what's going on."

Roger swallowed and nodded, his muscles still tense.

Collins stood up. "Take it easy," he reminded again. "Is there anyone else you want me to call?"

The musician shook his head.

"Okay, I'll be back in a few."

He left the room and closed the door behind him. Mark sat silently, enjoying the opportunity to be alone with his friend, though Roger seemed to be stubbornly avoiding his gaze. Maybe now was the time to figure out whether he was actually was angry.

"Are you mad at me or something?" Mark asked suddenly, preferring not to beat around the bush.

"No," Roger shot back immediately, but then he paused. "Yeah. Maybe. I dunno."

He looked so defeated and exhausted that Mark felt bad about pushing the matter, but he had to know. "Why?"

Roger's eyes met his gaze. They didn't exactly look angry- mostly confused and upset. "Why'd you try 'n help?" he asked sadly. "'M HIV positive, Mark. Could'a gotten you real sick."

Mark's mind flashed back to the alley, and the panic he'd felt as he desperately pulled his scarf off of his neck. Roger must have remembered pushing him away, but he wondered how much he recalled of the rest. He wondered if Roger remembered him refusing to leave, even after his friends' warnings.

"I never touched the blood," he said, hoping that would alleviate his friend's anxieties. "I just sat with you and talked."

"You almost did. 'N you were too close."

Mark huffed out an annoyed sigh. "Look, Roger, I don't think you understand," he started stubbornly. "I don't see you as this diseased person who I need to stay away from. You're not 'Roger, my best friend with HIV', you know?" Shrugging, he said, "You're just Roger, my best friend." He looked away briefly, his mind returning to the snowy alley and the horrible scene there. "And you were dying," he added quietly, recalling how he'd tried to stay calm as Roger's life slowly drained away. "I don't know if you remember that, but you were, and I couldn't stand there and watch you die. I had to at least try to help."

Roger listened to him speak, his eyes filled with sadness, and he swallowed. "'M sorry," he said again. Mark shook his head. He hadn't meant to make him feel guilty. He'd only been trying to explain why he'd done what he had. "It just…" Roger trailed off, looking up at the ceiling and picking at the hospital sheets with the fingers of his left hand. "Scared me," he finally admitted. "You gotta be more careful 'round my blood," he said seriously, his eyes burning into Mark's. "Promise," he pleaded. "Couldn't forgive myself for gettin' you sick."

Mark sighed and nodded. He should have considered Roger's feelings when he'd ignored his orders to stay away, but at that moment, being with his friend was too important. "I promise," he answered, and then added, "and I'm sorry, too. I just wanted to be there with you."

Roger gave him a small smile. "I know," he said. "Thanks for bein' there." He slowly opened his right hand, offering it to Mark as much as he could without hurting himself.

Mark gently grabbed his friend's hand in his own, squeezing it softly to substitute for a handshake. "You're welcome. Thanks for not dying," he said with a grin.

"Didn't have the chance," Roger answered tiredly, his eyes closing. "Chatty filmmaker kept wakin' me up." He smirked.

Mark chuckled, though he was surprised that his friend remembered that. He'd been barely conscious. He reached out and slowly placed the oxygen mask back over the man's face, taking comfort in the condensation of the small puffs against the plastic.

"I'll be quiet this time," he promised. "Get some sleep."

Roger nodded slightly. Within seconds, the morphine and exhaustion pulled him under.

Mark smiled again, squeezing Roger's pale hand and giving it a final pat before laying it down gently at his side. He leaned backwards, relishing the feeling of knowing that everything was going to be okay.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

March 29, 1992

It was about 9:00 in the morning when they approached Roger's room the next day. They'd been asked to leave when visiting hours ended the night before and they hadn't been happy about it, so they made a point to return early. Mark had swiped a Sunday newspaper off of a stand in the lobby on their way upstairs. He had no idea how long they'd have to wait until Roger was ready to talk, so he might as well have something to entertain himself.

Upon entering the room, he was met with a sight he hadn't expected. Roger was awake and propped up against a multitude of pillows, and they seemed to be the only thing stopping him from completely falling over. He looked far from well. His skin was still far too pale, his hair was a mess, and a variety of wires and IVs were still connected to his arms and body. On the bright side, the oxygen mask had been replaced with a small tube of oxygen that ran underneath his nose and hooked behind his ears, and the blood that had previously snaked its way the down the long tube and into his veins was absent. Dr. Marshall was standing by his bedside and motioning to a small bowl that was resting on a tray across the rails of the bed. He turned around when he heard them enter. "Good morning," he greeted with a smile.

They nodded at him, responding with their own kind words and looked at Roger.

"Hey," he greeted, eyes heavy with fatigue. His voice was still weak, though somewhat stronger than the day before.

"We've just finished changing the bandages, and now I'm trying to convince Mr. Davis to eat something," Dr. Marshall explained with a frustrated glance at his patient. "But maybe one of you will have more success."

Roger's face wrinkled at the idea. "Told you 'm really not hungry," he mumbled.

"You need something in your stomach," the doctor countered. "Even if it's just some jello. That should be nice and light for you."

Roger shook his head slowly, then stopped and closed his eyes, leaning his head back into the pillows. He opened them again a moment later. "I don't want anything," he insisted.

Mark felt bad for the doctor. He knew how difficult it was to argue with Roger, and it was almost impossible to convince him to do something he didn't want to do. He also trusted that the man would know what was best for his patient, so he decided to step in.

"C'mon, Roger," Mark encouraged. "Just some jello. This is the only time you'll ever get to eat it for breakfast," he added with a smile.

Roger glared at him. "Fine," he grumbled, and Mark suspected he'd only agreed so that he'd be left alone.

Dr. Marshall's look changed into one of satisfaction. "Great," he said, scooting the bowl closer to Roger, who sneered at it before slowly reaching out with his good hand and picking up the spoon.

Mark watched with silent amusement as Roger clumsily maneuvered the utensil with his left hand, spooning up a small amount of the sugary treat and attempting to bring it towards his lips. He couldn't hold his laughter when, halfway to the open mouth, the little chunk of jello wobbled dangerously before sliding off of the shaking spoon and landing in Roger's lap. He snorted loudly, chuckling at the confused look on his friend's face. Roger groaned in frustration.

"It'll take a while to get used to the left hand," Dr. Marshall said with a smile. "Eat as much as you can. I'll be back in a few minutes." Turning around, he walked toward the door, pausing by their group on the way. "He's a bit grumpy this morning," he warned quietly, though Roger didn't seem to be listening anyway. "He's nauseous and lightheaded, but try to keep him eating."

Mark nodded in understanding. As Dr. Marshall headed out the door, they approached Roger, dragging their chairs around the bed as they had the previous day.

They greeted him as they took their seats, settling in comfortably. Roger put down the spoon, dropping his hand back into his lap and sighing.

"You're supposed to eat that," Mimi reminded him, motioning to the bowl.

"'M not hungry," he said again. He sounded tired, like he could sleep for about a week.

"Come on, Rog. Just try to eat some more."

He ignored her for a moment, but then reluctantly did as he was told. He grabbed the spoon again, slowly beginning to eat. It looked as though it took a great deal of effort to raise his arm all the way to his mouth. It was slow going, but he seemed to be doing okay.

Mark wished there was something they could do to make him feel better, but his body had taken such a hit with the blood loss that it just needed time to recuperate. "So the guys from the band stopped by for you last night," he said brightly, trying to distract his friend from his bad mood. "You were asleep, but they were here for a little bit before they headed to the club."

Roger perked up. "Was Dennis mad 'bout the show?"

Mark shook his head, amazed that Roger was worried about what the club manager thought. "They called Dennis right after we called them, and no, he wasn't mad. He was concerned. He told Jeff that he'd take care of the fans, but it sounded like the guys wanted to break the news themselves. They were going to make an announcement at show time to let people know what was going on."

Roger nodded, but he looked upset.

"Hey, come on," Collins said gently. "There's no possible way you could have been there."

The musician shrugged his left shoulder, keeping his right as still as possible, but wincing all the same. "I know."

Maureen chuckled. "You didn't let them down," she assured him with a pat on the leg.

"Yeah," he said quietly, returning to his jello. He shifted a bit in an attempt to sit up straighter, but he froze and closed his eyes, his teeth gritting and his jaw clenching tightly.

"You alright?" Mark asked with concern, eyeing his friend's bandages. "Should I get the doctor?"

Roger opened his eyes suddenly. "I'm fine," he said. "Just dizzy." His hand was shaking hard as he slowly spooned another small mouthful of jello out of the bowl, and Mark wondered whether it was the weakness, the pain, or the nausea that was causing the unsteadiness. _Probably all three_, he realized.

They chatted lightly for a few minutes while Roger ate, pretending to ignore the way he would frequently wince or stop and close his eyes, take a deep breath and then continue as if nothing had happened. He was wrong if he thought he was fooling anybody, but they let him have his peace. He'd only get annoyed with them if they brought it up.

Dr. Marshall came through the open door after a few minutes, walking over and joining them at Roger's bedside. He peeked into the bowl that his patient had pushed aside. "Not bad," he praised, eyeing the mostly empty dish. He looked at Roger. "Do you feel like it's going to stay put?"

"We'll see," Roger said tiredly. It was hard to see him so exhausted. He hadn't even been awake that long, but he looked like he could sleep for hours.

The doctor laughed lightly. "Fair enough. How's the pain?"

Roger's eyes flickered over to Mimi for a fraction of a second before he focused on the doctor again. "It's fine."

Dr. Marshall gave him a look. "If you're not going to be honest with me while your friends are here, I can have them leave," he warned, obviously not believing Roger's statement. Mark didn't believe it either. He wished Roger would tell the truth, but he knew that his friend didn't want to upset Mimi in particular.

Roger let out a defeated sigh. "It hurts," he admitted quietly, avoiding eye contact with any of them. Mark didn't understand why he was so embarrassed. Of course it hurt. He'd been fucking _stabbed_.

Dr. Marshall nodded. "I thought it might. Now that the anesthesia is completely out of your system, your body is more aware of the pain. We'll up the morphine a bit." He pressed a button on the monitors and then turned to the rest of them. "Don't be alarmed if he starts acting a little loopy or disoriented. I'm increasing the dosage to get him through the worst of the pain." Next, the doctor lifted the small table off of the bedrails, careful not to let the discarded bowl slide off, and placed it to the side. "I'm going to take some of these," he said, reaching out towards the pile of pillows behind Roger's back. He removed a couple, gently stabilizing his patient's arm as he laid back. "Why don't you get some more sleep?" the doctor suggested quietly.

Roger didn't look pleased with the idea. "'M tired of sleeping," he grumbled.

The doctor nodded. "I know, but you need it."

"I'd sleep better at home."

Mark internally sighed. His friend just didn't understand.

Dr. Marshall crossed his arms and looked at Roger kindly. "Look Mr. Davis…"

"Roger," the musician put in quickly. "Just call me Roger."

He nodded. "Okay Roger. You may not be getting the blood transfusions anymore, but you're still not healthy. Your blood pressure is low, your body is significantly weakened, and your wound is going to need time to heal." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you go until I'm sure that you're in the clear. It's going to be a little while."

Roger didn't acknowledge the statement.

Mark felt badly. He remembered Roger, only half-conscious, mentioning that he hated hospitals, so it wasn't a surprise that he didn't want to stay. Mark was feeling antsy himself, and he had the option of leaving if he chose.

"I'm going to come check on you in a few hours," Dr. Marshall concluded. He smiled at them before turning to leave, his white lab coat fanning out behind him as he exited.

Mark stood up quickly. "Be right back."

He headed out the door and took a right down the hallway, catching the man just as he was about to turn the corner. "Dr. Marshall!"

The doctor whipped around at the sound of his name. "Mr. Cohen," he said. "What is it?"

Mark hurried to a stop a few steps in front of the man. "I just wanted to make sure… Roger's doing okay, right?" He was a little worried at his friend's behavior. Roger was prone to bouts of moodiness, but Mark wasn't expecting it from him today.

Dr. Marshall smiled. "He's okay. I wouldn't take the attitude too personally. He's hurting, of course, from both the fracture and the wound, so it's no surprise that he's a little grumpy." With a shrug, he said, "I'd imagine he's frustrated, as well. Your friend doesn't strike me as the type to ask for help, and I think he resents the fact that he needs people to take care of him."

Mark nodded in agreement. That had always been one of Roger's things. Even throughout the course of his withdrawal, there had been times when he'd fought Mark, Collins, and Maureen, saying that he was fine and he didn't need them around to baby him.

"It may be a couple days until he feels more like talking," the doctor added. "He'll probably sleep for most of today and tomorrow, anyway. He may not think he's tired, but his body is exhausted. And we'll see how it goes with the increased pain medication."

Mark nodded once again. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I appreciate it."

Dr. Marshall smiled. "Of course." He continued toward his destination, leaving Mark to walk back to the room.

He grinned as he entered, catching the curious gazes of his friends. He didn't comment, but sat down in his chair, noting that it squeaked quietly. "So," he started, shifting in his seat. "You going to try to get some sleep like the doctor told you?"

Roger sighed, settling further into the bed, and glanced at him. "Not yet," he answered. "I wanna talk to you guys."

It was the least angry he'd sounded all morning, and Mark smiled. He could tell that Roger wasn't just saying it to satisfy them; he sincerely desired their company. They'd really only had the opportunity to talk to him for about 20 minutes the day before. The rest of the time he'd been sleeping.

"What time is it?" Roger asked suddenly, looking around for the non-existent clock. Mark remembered him asking the same question the previous day, and he could only imagine how disoriented the man must have felt after being asleep for most of the last 32 hours.

"It's 9:20," Joanne responded after glancing at her watch. "And it's Sunday," she added helpfully, in case he was still confused.

"Thanks." He let out a small sigh and closed his eyes briefly, but they opened again just a second later.

"Hey, Man," Collins said quietly, reading the exhaustion in Roger's face. "Don't feel like you need to entertain us. We'll be fine just hanging out."

"Yeah," Mark added, reaching down to pick up the newspaper he'd obtained earlier. He flipped to a random page in the middle. "We'll sit quietly," he promised, demonstrating by looking down and pretending to read. His eyes scanned the paper, raking over the large print that characterized the headlines, and his gaze passed over one column off to the side before snapping back to it again. He re-read the title and the first few sentences, and his eyes widened. "Holy shit," he said, not quite believing it.

He didn't even register the confused expressions on his friends' faces, but he heard Mimi ask, "What?"

Mark ignored her, reading a little bit further, his mouth halfway open.

"What the hell, Mark?" Maureen asked in annoyance.

He glanced up, eyes focusing on Roger. "Do you remember that guy you were talking to at the bar on Friday night? After the show?"

Roger furrowed his eyebrows. "Maybe. Casey? No… Carl?"

Mark nodded. "Did you know he's a journalist?"

"No."

Again, Mark nodded. "He is. He's got a column in the paper. And he wrote about you."

Roger's eyes opened wide and he weakly attempted to sit up, but he ended up letting out a hiss of pain, freezing as the wound was jostled. "Ah, fuck!" he growled, clutching at his shoulder with his hand and closing his eyes tightly.

"Whoa!" Mark said while reaching out to help. "Take it easy," he warned with concern, watching as Mimi gently pushed him back into the pillows.

"What did he write?" Collins asked curiously, leaning sideways to read over Mark's shoulder.

"Shit," Roger groaned, swallowing through the nausea and allowing himself to lie down again. "God damn it, I shouldn't have talked to him."

"No, it's not bad," Mark reassured quickly, readjusting the paper in his hands. "Listen," he commanded, and began to read:

'_**The Well Hungarians' Well On Their Way**_

_By Carl Batterton_

_I'll be honest—rock music has never been my greatest passion. Not once had I actively sought out a rock band and followed them, because frankly, I don't particularly like their vibes. And while we're being honest, I'll admit that I don't particularly enjoy being bombarded with so much noise that I can't make sense of my own thoughts. You may call me old-fashioned, but I like leaving a concert with my hearing completely intact. I'm telling you this because on Friday night, I watched a rock band play at Jack's Bar downtown. And I absolutely loved them._

_I'd heard about these guys, 'The Well Hungarians' from a couple friends, and then a couple more, and a few more after that. It seemed that there was no escaping the chain of people who had heard the band at least once. I became so fed up with my lack of familiarity that I did something I never planned to do—I scouted out their next gig, and I camped out to watch them play. Let me tell you, I was impressed._

_Their music wasn't the blaring assault of drums and guitars that I expected. Each member of the band was highly skilled, and it showed on stage. The drums kept the beat without fail, the bass was subtle yet crucial, and the guitars were flawless. This band had the ability to keep the crowd engaged, and they could do it with any song. I had the opportunity to have a casual conversation with the band's frontman and lead guitarist, Roger Davis._

_I'm not sure what it was about this kid, but I knew that he was different from the moment he began singing. He's got that something that makes you believe he truly sings from his heart. His words are powerful, and they have meaning. Listen closely, and those lyrics will tell you the story of a man's life._

_It was interesting, really. As I spoke to him after the show, I inquired about the inspiration for his lyrics. He wasn't completely comfortable telling me the details (I was a complete stranger, after all), but my impression was that life hasn't always been kind to Roger Davis, and he's learned to deal with it in one way—music._

_It's almost funny that the struggles and pain of one man can turn into a song that people love to hear, yet this seems to be the case. The sheer number of fans who showed up to watch the band play was astounding, but after hearing them for myself, I can't say that I'm surprised. Almost every song was radio-worthy, and that's not what I was expecting from this little band that came out of the woodwork._

_In short, I'm convinced that The Well Hungarians deserve every bit of the attention that they're getting, and quite a bit more. I think it's refreshing that they aren't playing music with the goal of possibly producing a hit- they're playing because they truly love it. If you haven't caught a show yet, do it as soon as possible. Maybe even ask for an autograph or two, because I'm telling you now, it's only a matter of time until these guys are going places._

Mark finished the article with a smile, and looked up at his friends. They stared back with wide eyes, until suddenly, Collins started laughing.

"No way," he said through his grin. "Roger, he glorified you guys in the fucking newspaper!"

That caused snorts of disbelief from the rest of them, which grew into laughter as well. Roger's features lit up with a smile that warmed Mark's heart to see. It was genuine.

"Holy shit," Roger breathed out. He seemed much more awake than he'd been all morning.

Mimi chuckled. She grabbed Roger's hand, bringing it up to her mouth and kissing his knuckles. "Congrats," she said with a smile.

"This is awesome," Maureen added brightly. "The fact that you're getting your name out there."

Roger half-shrugged through his smile. "I guess so," he acknowledged.

Collins snorted, putting on a dopey voice. "Oh, 'I guess so,'" he said mockingly. "I guess it's okay," he teased before leaning forward with a grin and reaching out a long arm to gently ruffle the musician's already messy hair. "This is great, you idiot."

Mark chuckled as he put the paper aside and reached out to pat his friend's forearm. "Nice job, Rog."

Roger smiled. "Thanks," he said, but his smile quickly began to fall..

Mark knew exactly what was going through his friend's mind. "Hey," he said, and Roger's sad gaze shifted over to him. "It'll take some time, but you'll get better, and you'll be back on stage before you know it."

Roger sighed and gave a little nod. "I hope so," he said quietly.

"You will," Mark reassured, "and we're going to be around to help you out. I'm going to tell Brandon that I need some time off of work, and I'll stay home with you."

Roger shook his head. "No, you don't need to."

"I can take time off," Mimi offered, looking up at Mark. "I'm due for some vacation. If you want to stay with him half the week, I'll stay the other half. "

"Guys, don't worry about it."

Mark nodded to Mimi, acknowledging her idea, and Maureen spoke up. "Joanne and I can help too," she said. "If you can't get time off, just let one of us know."

Joanne nodded in agreement. "I should be able to get a day off pretty easily."

"Hey, guys, come on."

"I can be here anytime he needs me," Collins added, and Mark nodded gratefully.

"Hey!" The angry tone got their attention and they looked down at Roger, whose face no longer held a trace of the happiness from earlier. "Do I get a say in this?" he questioned, and his voice had dropped back to its strained, quiet tone.

Mark felt a little guilty when he realized they'd been talking _about _him rather than _to _him. "Sorry, Rog," he apologized. "What's wrong?"

"Please stop worrying," he pleaded with them. "I hate when you do this. I don't need a babysitter. I'll be fine."

Mimi squeezed his hand. "You're just really easy to worry about," she admitted. "And face it. You're going to need help for a little while."

"I can handle it."

Mark shook his head and spoke firmly. "We're not going to leave you home alone, Roger. You don't know how the blood loss has affected you, and you're going to be weak and sore for a while. I'm sorry, but you need someone with you."

Roger shook his head. "Work's important, too." The increase in morphine seemed to be taking effect, because his words were beginning to slur more severely once again.

Mark read the guilt in Roger's eyes, and he could tell that his friend wasn't just trying to be stubborn. He was sincerely upset that they'd have to change up their schedule for him. And when Mark thought about it, it probably wasn't the best idea for him to take too much time off. They needed money for food. And AZT. "You're right," he conceded. "I'll be right back." He got up and quickly left the room, walking down the hallway until he found a payphone wired into the wall. After inserting some coins, he picked it up and dialed a familiar number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom," he greeted warmly. It had been a couple weeks since he'd talked to her, but he'd been glad to hear that his dad was as good as new after his heart attack. They'd keep an eye on him in the future for further complications, but he was doing quite well at the moment.

"Hey, Mark!" she responded. "What's going on? We haven't heard from you in a while."

"Yeah, sorry," he answered. "I'd planned to call yesterday, but something happened and I needed to deal with it."

"What happened?"

Mark sighed, hoping not to upset her too much. "Before I tell you, I want you to promise me you'll stay calm."

There was a pause on the other end. "Mark, this isn't helping. Just tell me what's wrong." Her voice was panicky. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "It's uh… It's actually Roger. We were walking home from his show on Friday night, and we ran into a guy trying to mug some girl. Roger got there first and grabbed him, but the guy had a knife and turned on him."

"Oh my God!" his mom gasped. "Oh, God, Mark, is he okay?"

"Yeah," he said, but he corrected himself. "Well, sort of. It got him in the chest just underneath the collarbone, kind of near his shoulder," he explained, and he heard his mom gasp again, but he plowed on. "It fractured the bone and hit an artery, and he was bleeding out. He went into shock, and we did what we could to control the bleeding, but he lost so much, and I..." He trailed off. He had been doing so well to remain detached and get through the story, but as he'd continued, his fears began coming out again. "I thought he was going to die, Mom," he admitted quietly, feeling the familiar lump form in his throat. "I thought I was going to have to watch him die."

"Oh, God," his mom repeated, and Mark could hear the tears in her voice. She'd watched Roger grow up, and she'd treated him like her own son. It was understandable that she was upset as well. "I can't believe that. I'm so sorry, Sweetie. Have you seen him at all?"

"Yeah, actually, I'm calling you from the hospital. We were with him all day yesterday, but he didn't wake up until almost 7:00 last night. We stayed until visiting hours ended, and then we came back just about half an hour ago."

"And how's he doing now?"

Mark shrugged out of habit. "He's really weak and exhausted, and he's in pain. They had to give him transfusions and stuff, and he's been on oxygen to help his heart pump blood. They say it'll be a while before he has his strength back."

His mom gave a sad sigh. "Have you called Roger's mother?"

Mark gritted his teeth. "No, and you can't tell her," he said seriously. "Roger didn't want to worry her. He'll tell her when he's ready." That was a lie. Roger would never tell his mom, but that wasn't the important thing at the moment. "Mom. Promise me you won't say anything to her." Roger would be so pissed if that happened.

His mom was silent for a minute, but finally she said, "Okay. But I'd like to come out there, if you're okay with it. Your dad and I can help you boys out for a little while. And I'd like to see Roger for myself."

Mark felt a little bit of relief at his mom's words. "Actually, that's why I was calling," he revealed. "Roger's uncomfortable with us skipping work to stay home with him, and I was thinking that maybe you guys could keep him company during the day. I'm still going to take a few days off, but I'm not sure how long he's going to need someone with him." It wasn't as though it really mattered for his parents. They were both in their early 60's and retired, so they could afford a few days in the Alphabet City.

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "We can be out there tomorrow."

"Okay, well, it's going to be a few more days until they release him from the hospital," Mark warned. "He's still on IVs and monitors and all that. His vitals are pretty shaky still, I think."

"It's fine, Sweetie, we'll come out there tomorrow and get a hotel and everything set up."

Mark was struck with a little feeling of guilt. "Yeah, look, you guys could sleep at the loft, but there's not really beds or anything…"

"It's okay, we can find a hotel."

"Okay, thanks, Mom. Seriously."

"Thanks for calling," she responded. "And I am sorry, Sweetie. I know this must have been tough for all of you."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, it was. I'm just glad he's doing okay, and hopefully we'll be able to take him home in a few days. I'm going to go try to catch him before he falls asleep again, but call the loft tomorrow morning and we'll set up a meeting time."

"Okay, we'll see you soon. Love you. Give Roger our love as well."

"Love you, too. Bye."

The phone call ended with a click, and Mark put it back in its holder. He returned to Roger's room, walking in and seeing that his friend actually was still awake, though just barely. The others were chatting with him quietly, but looked up as Mark entered.

"Where'd you disappear to?" Maureen asked curiously.

"I was calling my mom," he answered. He looked at Roger. "They want to come out here, and they can stay with you during the day while we go to work."

Roger groaned softly, though Mark could tell he was exaggerating it on purpose. "Your _parents_?"

Mark smiled. "Yep, so be prepared to be mothered to no end."

Roger actually cracked a small smile as well, his eyelids drooping. "Fine," he grumbled.

Mark took a seat in his chair again, getting comfortable. He could tell that Roger wasn't going to be able to stay awake much longer. "On the bright side, they'll probably stock our refrigerator."

"Can't argue with that," Roger mumbled tiredly, allowing his eyes to shut for a moment.

"We can talk later, Rog," Collins said. "Don't worry about it. Get some sleep."

Roger was quiet for a moment. "Okay," he finally gave in, nodding a little bit. He blinked a couple times and looked around at them all. "Thanks."

They didn't have time to ask him what he was thanking them for because within seconds, he had fallen back into a relaxed sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

**First of all, I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! It was so nice to hear that you are enjoying it!**

**Secondly, this chapter ended up being about 2,000 words longer than I'd anticipated, so you're welcome ;) Enjoy**

**Chapter 17**

April 2, 1992

"Hey, look at you!" Maureen exclaimed loudly as they went in to visit Roger around 6:00 on Thursday evening. Mark caught sight of his parents sitting comfortably next to the bed, and he smiled at them. They'd arrived in the East Village on Monday afternoon, and his mom had been a wreck when she saw Roger for the first time. It had taken them over an hour to console her that he was truly doing well. The matter wasn't helped by the fact that Roger could barely stay awake, and the increase in morphine was again disabling him from speaking completely coherently. She'd slowly gotten over the shock of him being so seriously hurt, but in the last three and a half days, she'd stayed by his side almost as much as Mark himself had. He knew his dad had been upset as well, but he'd been better about remaining collected in their presence.

Roger grinned at the group of them as they came in. He was propped up in bed, almost straight up in a sitting position, and his arm rested securely in a sling that kept his shoulder and collarbone immobile. He looked worn-out, but his eyes didn't seem to be constantly drooping as they had been previously, and there was at least some degree of color returning to his skin. They'd finally taken him off the oxygen the day before, and his chest rose and fell in mostly even breaths.

"Hey," he greeted warmly.

"You're looking better," Mark observed happily. This had been the first time since the incident that any of them had gone to work rather than stay with Roger at the hospital, so they hadn't had the chance to see him that morning. He was pleasantly surprised at the improvement since the day before. "How are you feeling?"

Roger nodded fairly enthusiastically, though he stopped quickly, probably regretting the decision when the vertigo hit. He swallowed hard and clamped his jaw shut, and Mark waited patiently until his friend was ready to answer. "Good," he finally said in a shaky voice, the spinning room still getting to him. "They said they might let me out of here soon."

Mark couldn't help but smile at the thrilled look on his friend's face. "Great!"

Roger nodded more slowly this time. His eyes tracked Mimi closely as she sauntered over and stood next to his bed, brushing his messy hair backwards. "Hey, Baby," she said quietly. With a warm smile, she leaned in to give him a kiss.

Roger was surprised when her lips caught his without warning, but he responded hungrily, perhaps forgetting that they had company. His eyes closed and he kissed her back, his lips much more responsive than they'd been in previous days. Mark was just about ready to clear his throat and end the moment when a loud beeping filled the room, and he frowned as he looked about for the source of the noise. Mimi and Roger broke apart, heads turning towards the monitor displaying Roger's pulse, which had steadily sped up and was now beeping quite obnoxiously. They all tried to stifle their snorts of laughter, and Mark peeked over at his parents, who were smiling knowingly.

Mimi smirked with amusement, and Roger's cheeks turned red as he glared at the machine. It was slowly beginning to return to its normal speed. "You really are feeling better," she teased, taking a step backwards.

"Mmm-hmm," Roger mumbled.

Mark chuckled at his best friend's embarrassment, but quickly changed the subject. "So things went okay today?" he asked a little nervously, looking between his parents and the injured man. He'd been wary about leaving them all cramped up in the hospital room, just because there was literally nothing to do but stare at each other or the wall. He hoped his parents had found some way to entertain themselves, particularly if Roger had slept as much as he had in previous days.

"Of course!" his mom answered. "We had a nice talk."

"We swapped stories about you," his dad added with a wink.

Mark's eyes widened, and he gave Roger a pleading look. "He's kidding, right?"

Roger gave a small laugh, wincing a bit. "Come on, Mark. You really think they could tell me anything that I don't already know?"

Mark's eyebrows rose and he shrugged, realizing the truth of that statement. He took a seat in an empty chair next to the bed. "So how soon are they thinking about letting you out of here?" he asked, speaking to Roger but looking to his parents for an honest answer.

Roger opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by an authoritative voice from somewhere behind them.

"How's tomorrow sound?"

Mark turned his head to see Dr. Marshall striding into the room.

Roger grinned at the doctor. "Tomorrow? Seriously?"

The man shrugged in a _Why not? _fashion. "You've been on fluids long enough, and I'm no longer worried about organ damage, plus your vitals are good. You'll need to rest, by all means, and keep your shoulder still, but at this point, there's no reason why you can't do that at home."

Mark watched his friend's face light up at the good news. The utter joy in the tired features warmed his heart. It was about time that he got out of there.

Dr. Marshall continued speaking. "I just need to take another look at the wound to make sure it's healing okay." They scooted out of the way as he approached Roger's side, pulling a pair of blue rubber gloves over his hands. "Would you prefer that your visitors left the room?" he questioned, obviously concerned with the issue of patient privacy.

Roger gave a half-shrug. "I don't care."

"Okay." The doctor gently unbuttoned the flimsy hospital gown and pulled it away from Roger's shoulder, exposing the clean white bandages underneath. He carefully unwound them, peeled off the sticky adhesive tape, and removed the gauze pad.

It was the first time that Mark had actually seen the wound after the initial incident. It wasn't incredibly long, only about two inches, but it was jagged, and he knew it was deep. The skin had been torn roughly thanks to the knife's impact with the bone and subsequent crude removal. The area looked swollen and sore, and there was a fair amount of bruising due to the damaged tissue. The edges of the gash were held together firmly by a professional line of black stitches.

"Oh, God," Mary gasped. She'd never been particularly fond of sights like that.

"Ouch," Mark mumbled sympathetically, risking a glance at Roger's face. He didn't seem bothered by the look of the wound like the rest of them were. In fact, Mark realized, he could probably barely see it unless he looked in a mirror. It was so high up on his chest that his chin would get in the way if he looked downwards at it.

"Yes, it's still pretty raw," Dr. Marshall acknowledged, studying the wound closely. "It was a nasty one. But it doesn't look like there's any sign of infection, which is great news." He smiled at them. "The antibiotics have been doing their job."

Mark caught a glimpse of his mom's face across the bed. She was looking at Roger with concern, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed with worry. Despite the situation, it almost made Mark smile. It didn't matter that Roger wasn't her son by blood; he'd been around enough as a kid that she practically raised him as one of her own, and that motherly instinct was shining through. It reminded Mark of when they'd been 13 years old and climbing trees in his backyard. Roger had slipped and broken his ankle, and Mark had quickly run inside to get his mom. Then, too, Mary Cohen had been almost overbearing with her worry, constantly asking how Roger was doing as they helped him hobble to the car and drove to the hospital. But looking back on it now, Mark loved that about her. He remembered the times when he got sick and had to stay home from school. His mom would take the day off of work and watch over him, willingly making his favorite meals and renting movies for him to watch until he got better. It was just her way.

Mark felt one large hand land on each of his shoulders from behind as Collins leaned on him. "So do those come out before we take him home?" the man's deep voice asked as he motioned to the stitches.

The doctor shook his head as he gently replaced the gauze pad and stuck it on. "No, those'll need to stay in for about another week, then you'll take him down to the nearest clinic and they can remove them."

Collins nodded in understanding.

"He'll need to be careful not to tear them though," Dr. Marshall warned. He gazed at Roger sternly. "You need to keep your arm in the sling and avoid movement as much as possible, okay? It's going to take at least another three weeks for the fracture to heal, and the wound itself even longer." He pulled the hospital gown back up onto Roger's shoulder, buttoning it in the back. "And the antibiotics aren't optional, either," he added, raising an eyebrow. "You need to keep taking them until they're gone. The last thing you need is an infection."

Roger smirked a little bit. "Yes, sir."

"Yeah, right," the doctor said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. His gaze swept around the room. "I expect you all to keep him honest," he declared with a smile, but he again looked at Roger seriously. "And all jokes aside, you really do need to take it easy," he explained. "Your body has been through a serious trauma—and quite frankly, it was one that you were lucky to survive. You may feel like you're fine, but you're going to be weak from the blood loss for a few more weeks, and you'll feel lightheaded for a while still."

Roger nodded in understanding. "I'll be good," he promised.

"We've got him, Doc," Collins reassured, grinning fondly at their injured friend. "We'll take care of him."

There were nods of agreement around the room, and Mark felt a wave of pride wash over him. He felt so lucky to be a part of this group of people who would give anything to help one of their own. If it were him lying in that bed, Mark knew he could count on every one of them to have his back as well.

Dr. Marshall nodded. "I believe you," he confirmed. He turned to Roger again. "I'll take this now." He gently removed Roger's arm from the sling and lifted the strap off of his neck. "You've been sitting up for a while, so you need to lie back." He pressed a button that gradually lowered the head of the bed until it became flatter, though it still remained partially upright. "We'll talk more about the details of your release in the morning."

"Thanks for everything, Doctor," Mark's mom said sincerely as the man turned to leave. "We appreciate it."

Dr. Marshall nodded, flashing a bright smile. "Not a problem. It's always nice when we get to release someone. Especially when they have a loving family to go home to." He gave a final wave before leaving the room.

James leaned forward, gently squeezing Roger's blanketed knee. "Only one more night," he said. "Then you're out of here."

Roger nodded, sighing deeply. "Yeah. And thanks for keeping me company today," he added sincerely, his eyes shifting between Mark's parents. The genuine look of thanks on his friend's face convinced Mark that though Roger had made a big deal over being fine on his own, he'd really had no desire to spend the day by himself.

"Of course, Dear," Mary answered kindly. Mark shot her a grateful look, and his eyes wandered to the now-decorated nightstand off to her right. _Weird_, he thought. _That wasn't there before…_

"Hey, who'd that stuff come from?" he asked curiously, eyes scanning over the card and the candy, as well as the small bouquet of flowers that added a splash of color to the otherwise blandly white room.

Roger's forehead creased in confusion. "Oh, that girl from the mugging brought them today. I don't know how she even knew I was here."

Mark's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Erin came by?" He'd finally called her yesterday, once things had really calmed down, and explained the whole ordeal. She'd been incredibly apologetic and promised to come visit, and he'd done his best to rid her of her guilt. He appreciated the amount of concern she showed, and he'd been looking forward to seeing her truly meet Roger. He was sorry he'd missed her. "I called her," he revealed in response to Roger's confusion. "She asked me to after the ambulance took you away. I just didn't actually get around to it until yesterday."

A look of understanding passed over Roger's features.

"She seemed like a very sweet girl," Mary put in. "It was nice of her to bring this stuff. And she was very thankful to Roger."

"Yeah," Mark agreed. "She's great. Er, you know, she seems like it," he corrected himself, seeing as how he really didn't know her at all.

Roger was staring at him with a strange look on his face, and he smirked slightly before shifting his gaze. Mark gave him a curious glance.

"The police also came by today," James added, distracting Mark from his thoughts. "They caught a guy in another mugging who was carrying a knife. They found dried blood on it, and they think he could be the one who stabbed Roger."

"They got him?" Mimi repeated excitedly.

"Maybe," James corrected. "They said they could try to match the blood if Roger allowed them to take a sample, but first they want him and Erin to try to confirm that it's the guy. There's always the chance that he just happened to find the knife after somebody else used it."

Mark felt a little bit guilty, considering he'd been the one with the camera and he hadn't managed to get a shot of the guy. The policemen had returned the device a few days before, thanking him for the effort. He peeked at Roger, who'd been listening quietly, and wondered what he was thinking. "Can you remember his face?" Mark questioned curiously. "Do you think you would recognize him?"

"I don't know," Roger admitted honestly. "It was dark, and I think Erin got a better look at his face than I did." He shrugged. "I can sure take a _stab_ at it though." He put an extra emphasis on the word and finished with a smirk at his own pun.

Mark and his friends snorted with amusement, but his mom didn't join in. "Roger," she admonished gently. "That's not something to joke about. You could have died." Mark rolled his eyes slightly. There she went again, with her over-protectiveness.

Roger tried to control his smile. "Sorry, Mary."

"Seriously, Roger," Collins put in. "Your life was hanging on the edge of a _knife_, and now you're cracking jokes." He finished with a straight face, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Mark snickered again, catching the glare his mom sent in Collins' direction. He wished she would understand that this was their way of moving past these events. There were times for seriousness, but they'd _been_ serious for almost an entire week as they let Roger regain some of his strength. They'd spent too much time being scared and worried, and it was time to finally believe that things were getting back to normal. If they needed to play it off with jokes, even morbid ones, so be it.

He shot his mom an apologetic glance before turning to Roger again. "Well, at least it would have been an exciting way to go," he chimed in, discounting briefly the sheer panic he'd felt when he though his friend really w_as_ going to die. "You know? 'One _blade_ of glory.'"

He grinned as Roger and the others laughed, and his parents observed their strange behavior. He ignored them. They didn't understand, and they didn't need to. Right now, it was enough to share this moment with his closest friends.

* * *

The following morning found them gathered in the hospital room for what Mark hoped was the last time. He'd had way too much of the stark whiteness of the walls and the constant smell of antiseptic, and he knew Roger felt the same way. The man was almost giddy with excitement when his friends walked in.

"Hey guys!" he greeted from his place in the bed. Dr. Marshall also turned around, greeting them kindly.

Mark smiled at the enthusiasm. "Hey, Rog."

All of them had managed to get the morning off of work in order to hear any instructions they may need to provide the proper care for their friend. They wanted to make sure that there was no risk of complications from the wound or the blood loss.

Mark held out a plastic bag. "Here you go. I brought you some clothes."

Roger took the bag with his good hand. "Thanks," he said, not even attempting to untie it but working to tear it open with one hand, the other arm once again trapped in the sling. Mark saw him struggle and wordlessly snatched the bag back, tearing it open easily and pulling out the clothes to hand to his friend. He'd shuffled through Roger's drawers and picked out a pair of baggy sweats and some boxers, as well as a tee-shirt, socks, and some old tennis shoes.

"Hey, that reminds me," Dr. Marshall said, bending down to pick up another plastic bag, this one a massively oversized Ziploc, off of the floor. He held it out to Roger as well, who took it curiously. "Your clothes from the night they brought you in," the man clarified. "The paramedics cut your shirt off so it was destroyed, but the rest is in there. You'll, uh, probably need to wash them," he finished lamely, no need to explain what he meant.

Roger looked down at the bag in his hand. Even from where he was standing, Mark could see the bloodstains covering large portions of the leather jacket, making it looked dry and cracked. Roger just stared at it for a moment, but then he began to smile. "Hey, Collins," he spoke quietly. "Good news."

The professor tilted his head slightly in confusion. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

The musician looked up, a hint of his mischievousness shining through in his gaze. "You'll be happy to know that the leather pants survived without a scratch. I know how much you love them."

Mark smirked as Collins tried to stifle a grin. "Great," he answered sarcastically. "I was worried."

"Well I think that's _fantastic_ news," Mimi put in. Roger's smile grew as he tossed the bag down onto the bed.

Dr. Marshall spoke. "Okay, how about we get these off of you?" he questioned with a gesture at the various wires, and his patient nodded enthusiastically. He reached out towards the device clipped on to Roger's finger and slid it off, leaning over at the same time to turn off one of the monitors. The constant beeping that had filled the room for almost the past week suddenly disappeared, transforming into silence. It was almost eerie, in a way. The heartbeat had been comforting, even after they'd known that Roger was going to be okay.

Roger let out a deep sigh, probably relishing the quiet.

The doctor then unbuttoned the hospital gown once again, carefully maneuvering it around the sling and sliding it down so it sat bunched around the sheet covers at Roger's waist. "I'm just going to grab these," he explained, reaching out for the small and round sticky pads attached to Roger's chest and torso. Mark hadn't even known they were there.

"What were those for?" he asked curiously.

Dr. Marshall didn't look up from his work. "They helped monitor his heart and his lungs, things like that." He pulled the last of the little tabs off and let them hang freely from the machinery, swinging back and forth. He then reached out to Roger's right arm and removed the tape holding the IV in place before smoothly sliding the needle out.

Mark saw Roger stare a little bit too long at the small puncture that the needle left in his skin. Without the hospital gown to cover them up, he could literally see the muscles in his friend's shoulders tensing, an emotionally pained look crossing his face. He knew all too well that Roger's mind was flashing back to past mistakes, so he quickly reached out and gently touched his the musician's arm in an effort to distract him.

There wasn't anything particularly important that he needed to say, so he spit out whatever came to mind. "So my parents are going to bring the car by to pick us up," he told Roger. "Some of us, at least. We won't all fit."

Roger nodded in understanding, his body relaxing and his eyes meeting Mark's gratefully. "Okay."

Dr. Marshall covered the IV site with a cotton swab and taped it in place. "Alright," he said, standing up straight and looking at his patient warmly. "I'm going to let you put on your other clothes. Do you need my help or would you rather have a friend help you?"

"I can help," Mimi offered, and Roger nodded in agreement.

"Okay, just pull the shirt on over the sling. Don't worry about getting your arm through the sleeve."

Roger and Mimi nodded in understanding.

"We'll wait outside," Dr. Marshall finished, and Mark and the others followed him into the hallway, shutting the door behind them to allow Roger some sense of privacy.

Mark thought it might be a good time to thank the doctor once more. "We really do appreciate everything you've done for Roger," he said, turning to the taller man. "He means a lot to us, and I don't know what we would have done if we'd lost him." He finished this thought quietly, the threat of finding out always a possibility when his friend's body was riddled with HIV. He glanced at Collins. He, too, could be taken from them suddenly- or Mimi. Life was unfair like that.

Dr. Marshall looked at them oddly for a moment, and then opened his mouth to speak. "You know, when we first took Roger into surgery, we were convinced that he probably wasn't going to make it," the man revealed sadly. "Injuries like that one may not seem too severe, but they're deadly when coupled with that degree of blood loss. I've seen doctors do a lot more for people who've died from less." The man shook his head in wonder. "Anyway, I guess I'm saying that it's not me you should thank. Roger fought to survive because he had something to live for, and with the amount of dedication you all have shown him this past week, it's not hard to see what that something is. And I don't know if any of you believe in miracles," the doctor added with a shrug, "but sometimes, it's nice to think that there's someone up there looking out for us, particularly in situations like this."

Mark listened to the man curiously. He wasn't a very religious person; sure, he'd been raised Jewish, but he didn't practice now that he was away from home. He nodded, sighing gently. "I don't know what I believe," he responded quietly. He wished he could, but it was hard to show faith in those kind of things when one of his friends had already died from a disease that she didn't deserve, and three more were waiting in line. That didn't serve to promote his confidence in some higher being that cared for everyone equally. "I don't know," he repeated, pushing those thoughts from his mind, "but whatever it is that saved him, I don't think I'm going to fight it too much," he finished with a smile. He saw Collins, Maureen, and Joanne nod in agreement. Regardless of their religious beliefs, or lack thereof, Roger was alive. "I'm just glad he's coming home."

The doctor smiled back. "Yes, he is. So he's your problem now," he joked.

They laughed, and Mark shook his head. "He's been my problem for over 20 years," he said fondly. "I think I can handle him for a while longer."

Dr. Marshall's eyebrows rose. "Twenty years, really?"

Mark nodded. "We grew up together. Met in kindergarten, then moved to the East Village when we were 18, and met these guys," he said, motioning to Collins and Maureen, "and then Joanne and Mimi a couple years ago."

The doctor nodded. "You all have one of the strongest friendships I've seen in a long time. Hold on to that," he encouraged them sincerely.

Mark smiled at him. "We will."

The door to the hospital room opened and Mimi's head poked out. "Ready," she said, ushering them inside. Mark grinned as he saw Roger propped up on the bed, back in his own clothes, his tee-shirt sitting lopsidedly on his body. The right sleeve was empty, and the lump formed by his arm was resting against his ribs. He wasn't as energetic as he'd been only minutes ago, and Mark wondered if just moving around to change his clothes had already worn him out.

"Okay, good," Dr. Marshall said approvingly, tugging at Roger's right sleeve to straighten the fabric. "Now, let's get you standing up and make sure that you can handle it."

Mark caught the small glare that Roger gave the doctor. He'd obviously taken offense. Dr. Marshall must have seen it, too, because he raised an eyebrow and smiled a bit.

"Come on," the doctor encouraged, supporting Roger's shoulders as he helped him sit completely upright. He lowered the bedrails and tapped Roger's legs to get him to swing them over the side, which he did slowly. Mark imagined that all of his muscles were fairly stiff from being in bed for a week.

"Good," Dr. Marshall praised, a hand on Roger's right shoulder as the man blinked a few times. The change in position looked to be affecting him already. "Take your time."

Roger swallowed, closing his eyes briefly, then opened them again and nodded. "I'm good."

"Alright." He looked up at Collins. "Can you help support him?"

The big man nodded, and he walked around to the other side of Roger's bed, putting his left hand gently on the man's back and his right waiting readily to be of assistance.

"Okay, and here we go," Doctor Marshall said, giving a slight nudge.

Roger slid off the bed until his feet touched the floor and stood up slowly, straightening his back until he reached his full height. "Whoa," he mumbled, swaying sideways into the doctor, who braced himself and caught the man, pushing him gently upright. Collins grabbed the bottom of Roger's shirt to stop him from tipping too much further. "Shit," Roger groaned, closing his eyes.

"You're okay," Dr. Marshall assured patiently. "Deep breaths to control the nausea, and it'll pass. Once your body gets more accustomed to standing, the dizziness shouldn't be so bad."

Roger swallowed hard and followed the man's advice as Mark and the others watched with concern. Since he'd learned that Roger was going home, he'd convinced himself that his friend was almost healed. However, seeing him struggle to simply stand up reminded Mark that he wasn't, and the process would take time.

"Can you take a few steps?" Dr. Marshall asked, and Roger nodded, shuffling forward on shaky legs while the two men supported him. They slowly made their way around the room, and Roger seemed to get a little steadier as they went, though he still wobbled. Mark was fairly sure that the man was seeing double. They walked him back to one of the chairs placed next to the bedside. "Okay, take a seat," the doctor ordered, helping Roger lower himself into the chair. He leaned back heavily, panting as though he'd just exerted too much energy. "Nice job," Dr. Marshall praised him. Roger raised an eyebrow, still trying to catch his breath, and the doctor smiled. "I told you you'd need time," he warned. "It's going to be weeks before the blood has completely replenished itself, and until then, you'll be tired and you'll be lightheaded."

Mimi stood by Roger's side, placing a small hand on his hair and giving him an encouraging smile.

"So, you'll need someone with you at all times," Dr. Marshall reminded, looking around at the group. "I'm sure that won't be a problem," he added.

Mark shook his head. "At least one of us, or one of my parents, will be with him."

"Good. Now, as for the wound, like I said, he'll need to get in to see a doctor to remove the stitches, which you need to keep dry, by the way, so no showering for a few days."

"Uh-oh," Maureen teased. "Things could get smelly."

Roger glared at her, and Mark could see that he wanted nothing more than to flip her off, but restrained himself in the doctor's presence.

The doctor smiled before continuing. "You'll need to keep an eye on the wound for infection. We're sending some antibiotics with him, and he needs to take one a day, with food, until they're gone."

Mark nodded in understanding. "How would we know if it got infected?" he questioned, hoping desperately that he wouldn't need that knowledge.

"The first warning sign would be a fever, and you'd need to bring him in right away. The edges of the wound would probably be swollen and oozing, as well."

Roger's nose wrinkled at the word 'oozing'.

The doctor continued. "We're also sending some pretty strong painkillers. He's probably going to need two every six to eight hours."

Roger looked up quickly. "No, I don't need them."

They all stared at him in disbelief.

"You will," the doctor said. "You still have morphine in your system right now, but you won't by tomorrow."

Roger looked at them stubbornly. "I don't want them."

Mark watched his friend carefully, reading his nervous body language, and he was hit with a sudden realization. He turned to the doctor, speaking quietly. "Are the painkillers addictive?"

Dr. Marshall's eyebrows rose, and he looked at Roger with a sudden understanding. "If you don't mind my asking," he said gently, "what were you addicted to before?"

There was a silence in the room, and Roger swallowed before answering. Mimi stroked his hair comfortingly. She knew his pain better than anyone.

"Heroin," came his response. "It was a stupid decision to take it in the first place," he added regretfully.

The doctor nodded. "But you're clean now?"

Roger gave a small chuckle that was anything but amused. "Clean from the drugs, yeah. But not the HIV that came with it."

Mark was actually surprised that Roger was giving the man even this much information. But then again, his life had been thrown into the man's hands. There must be some elevated level of trust there.

Dr. Marshall nodded. "I see," he said, letting out a sigh. "Well, I'll be honest. The high that the painkillers produce can be addictive."

Roger nodded, already well-aware of that fact.

"But," the man continued, "morphine is even stronger, and you've handled that okay."

"Yeah, but you guys were controlling that," Roger countered quietly, avoiding eye contact with them as he spoke. Mark hated hearing his friend's insecurities come out like this. The man was obviously terrified of becoming dependent on another substance.

The doctor pursed his lips. "Well how about this," he said. "We'll give you the painkillers, and you can start off taking the recommended dose. At any time, if you feel like you're developing too much of an attachment, or if your friends think so, you call us, and we'll work something out from there, okay?"

Roger didn't answer.

"The fact that you are so determined not to develop an addiction gives me faith that you have the willpower to control yourself," the doctor finished, and finally, Roger nodded. Dr. Marshall smiled at him. "Good. Now, I just need you to sign this paperwork, and you'll be on your way."

Dr. Marshall handed over the clipboard and pen, and explained what the writing meant as Roger awkwardly initialed in various places with his left hand. After one final unsteady signature, Dr. Marshall put down the clipboard and called in a nurse pushing a wheelchair, who parked it right next to Roger. "Your chariot awaits," he joked, motioning to the chair and offering his other hand.

The musician paused briefly, and then reached out, allowing the help in standing upright. He clumsily shuffled sideways a step or two and sat down again, this time in the wheelchair.

Dr. Marshall held out his left hand, which Roger clasped and shook with his own. "My wishes for a speedy recovery."

Roger nodded, smiling gratefully. "Thank you," he said, meeting the man's eyes. "Seriously, for everything. Thank you."

The doctor grinned, his bright white teeth gleaming. "It's been a pleasure," he said. With a final wave and murmured thanks, the group trailed behind the nurse, who easily maneuvered Roger's chair through the long hallways and into the elevator, leading them towards the parking lot and the car that would take them home.


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello, all! Sorry for the late update. I was out of town this weekend and away from my computer, but here it is!**

**Also, I just want to warn you that there is a small conversation about religious beliefs. Please realize that I'm just writing what I think these particular versions of the characters would believe, so please don't be offended if they don't match up with your own. I know religion can be a sensitive subject, and I don't think there will be any problems, but I figured it was only fair to warn you.**

**Anyway, enjoy! :)**

**Chapter 18**

April 5, 1992

"Maureen, don't look at our letters!"

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are!"

"God, Mark , why don't you cry about it a little more?"

Mark sneered at her, carefully picking up the wooden block holding the Scrabble tiles and shielding them with his body. They were well into the game, having started about an hour ago after Collins had barged his way in with the dusty board, grinning widely. Mark didn't know exactly when or how the man had acquired it, but he was grateful. It provided a form of entertainment in which Roger could participate while he was still restricted by his injury, and that was all that mattered. He could tell that the musician was already getting fed-up with being confined to the couch, and he was determined to make his friend's recovery as painless as possible. If that meant playing stupid games all day, then that was fine. He was happy to do it, and he knew the others were as well, which led to them gathering in the loft on Sunday afternoon. Mark's camera was perched carefully on a chair next to them, filming the scene.

He and Roger formed a team for this particular game. Roger was stretched out on the couch, his restrained arm in the sling and resting across his ribs. Mark sat on the floor in front of him, leaning backwards against the couch and attempting to keep the letters and the board in Roger's sight. Maureen and Joanne had formed another team on his left, and Collins and Mimi were each on their own.

"Alright, what do you think?" Mark asked, realizing it was their turn. He raised the letters up so that Roger could look at them over his shoulder.

"Uh, how about this?" Mark held the block in place as Roger reached out a still unsteady left hand, clumsily shifting the tiles around and doing his best not to bump them onto the floor. When he was done, he pulled his hand back and said, "Then you can play it on the 'N' in the bottom left, and get the double letter and the two triple word scores."

Mark looked at the tiles and then the board, his eyebrows rising and a smirk forming on his lips as he pictured the word. The rest of the competitors groaned in annoyance, shaking their heads as they realized the upcoming play would be a high-scoring one. Mark laughed, but he honestly didn't blame them for their reactions. He would be frustrated, too, because Roger was the most deceptive Scrabble player to grace the Earth. He wasn't necessarily good, by any means. For most of the game, he'd come up with words like 'ant', 'sit', or 'tent', which added up to a whopping four or five points each, but every once in a while he would design some obscure word that could be placed in the most beneficial position on the board, scoring upwards of 100 points and boosting them into 1st place.

"Good call," Mark praised, pulling all seven letters off of the block and carefully positioning them around the already played 'N' on the bottom edge of the board, spelling out the word 'GLAZINGS'. He triumphantly placed the 'Z', worth 10, on the double letter score, and the first and last letters of the word on triple word scores. He smiled and looked to Collins. "How much is that worth?"

"I don't want to know," Mimi grumbled, staring at the board dejectedly.

Collins picked up the score pad and pencil. "Come on, it's not going too bad," he responded encouragingly, trying to remain optimistic. "The 'Z' is the only letter worth anything." He studied the board, speaking aloud as he calculated the score. "Okay, so that's 2, 3, 4, plus 20, so 24, then 25, 26, 28, 29 for the word. And then the first triple word score makes that 87, and the second…" His mouth formed a frown as he scribbled out the math on the side of the paper. "Ummm, 261," he finished, his lips pursing. "And technically, they get 50 extra points for using all seven of their letters."

"What?!" Maureen said loudly as Joanne rolled her eyes and Mimi groaned again in defeat. Mark laughed once more, reaching a hand over his shoulder to give his friend a high five. "That is so not fair!" Maureen protested, glaring at them. It was funny, how competitive the simple game had become.

"Why not?" Mark asked. "It's a legitimate word, it was played legally, and the rules specifically state that using all the letters in one turn gives you 50 extra points."

A pout crossed her face. "Yeah, but…" She trailed off, apparently not quite sure how to make her argument. Finally, she turned to Roger. "You're totally hustling us," she said, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Just getting lucky, I guess."

"Alright, well I quit," Mimi said, leaning backwards. "There's no point."

Mark smirked again in satisfaction just as a knock sounded at the door. He hopped to his feet and turned off his camera, then jogged over to slide the door open, grinning at his parents around the grocery bags they were holding.

"Hey, Sweetie," his mom greeted cheerfully. She stepped into the loft and smiling at the group as she made her way to the kitchen. "Good afternoon, everybody," she added, depositing the bags on the counter. His dad followed her, his own arms also weighed down with various food items, and he nodded in greeting as well.

The group gathered on the floor began to stand up and disperse, stretching their legs after sitting for so long and welcoming the Cohens with kind words of their own. Mark was incredibly glad that nobody seemed opposed to having his parents hang around to help out. Mimi had even offered her little place downstairs for them to stay, in order to cut out the cost of the hotel, and they'd eventually agreed. They'd been staying there since Friday night.

"We bought some food that you can use for dinners for the next couple weeks," his mom said, rifling through the bags as if double-checking her selections. She glanced over at Roger, who had managed to swing his legs over the side of the couch and push himself into a sitting position.

It had only been about two days since he'd been home from the hospital, and the weakness and exhaustion were still severe effects of his injury. He could make it short distances on his own, but any attempt to go too far resulted in him losing his energy and his balance and practically falling into the nearest chair, or into the ready arms of the nearest person. He generally needed someone standing beside him when he stood up because the change in position caused his lightheadedness to return almost instantly. Mark kept a careful eye on him whenever he began moving around, just in case his help was needed.

Mark's mom spoke again, pulling his attention back to her. "I'll make up some casseroles and things like that. You don't need to worry about cooking right now. You have other things on your mind."

Mark raised an eyebrow. They _never_ worried about cooking—cereal and milk went a long ways in the loft. But if his mom was willing to prepare meals for them, he wasn't going to complain. He knew she actually enjoyed it, anyway. The thought of him depending on her made her feel useful, and it was something that she cherished. "Thanks, Mom," he said. "That would be great."

She nodded, giving him a warm smile. "Of course, Dear." Finishing with the bags, she made her way over to Roger. "How are you feeling?" she asked with concern, reaching out a small hand and placing it on his forehead. "You don't have a fever, that's good."

Mark chuckled. Each one of them had already checked Roger for a fever that morning. Multiple times. They were so paranoid about infection that they were determined to catch it early if it was going to happen. Roger's HIV-handicapped immune system wasn't well enough equipped to fight off bacteria, and if it spread, things could get dangerous. Of course, Mark's mom didn't know that.

Roger nodded slowly. "I'm fine," he assured, patiently allowing her to play the motherly role.

She brushed his hair back gently, a smile on her face. "Do you need anything?"

"Probably a shower," Collins joked loudly, listening in from his seat at the table. He was sipping a beer that he must have scrounged out of the fridge.

"That's true," Roger consented with a small raise of his eyebrow. "I feel gross," he added, a disgusted look on his face as he ran his hand through his unkempt hair. He'd mentioned more than once since he'd gotten home that he'd like to clean up, but it would be almost impossible to keep the wound dry in the shower.

"Why don't you fill the bathtub, then?" Mary suggested. "You can lean over the side and one of us will help you wash your hair, at least." Mark froze. He quickly looked at Roger, gauging his reaction.

Roger's jaw had clenched just a bit, his eyes drifting towards the bathroom door. Mark knew what he was remembering…

"_Hey, Mark, head's up!"_

_Mark whipped around as he approached the door to the loft, just barely catching the basketball that Roger chucked at him from the bottom of the stairs. He looked at the ball in confusion. "Where'd you get this?" he called down to his friend. He could swear that the man had been right behind him._

_Roger came up to the landing, pointing in the direction that they'd just entered, and shrugged. "It was down there. Let's keep it. Maybe we can play later," he said enthusiastically, and Mark smiled a bit. He knew that Roger would beat him at basketball. That had been the one sport that the guy was decent at growing up, but he didn't care. He was happy that Roger wanted to do something that didn't involve getting high. That seemed to be at the top of his priority list these days, and Mark desperately wanted him to give it up._

_He tossed the ball back to his friend before turning around and digging the keys out of his pocket._

"_Might be unlocked already," Roger reminded, reaching past him and pulling at the handle. The door slid open, revealing the large, quiet loft. He chuckled. "She never locks it," he laughed, shaking his head with a fond smile._

_They stepped inside, Roger dribbling the ball off the hardwood obnoxiously. Mark followed him, slipping his camera bag off of his shoulder and setting it on the couch. He took off his coat and threw it over a chair, watching Roger shoot the ball into an imaginary hoop and then watch it bounce away. Roger began to walk after it when his attention was drawn by something else, and Mark followed his friend's gaze to the closed bathroom door. Roger's brow furrowed._

"_What time is it?" he questioned._

_Mark glanced at his watch. "2:30."_

"_She should be at work," Roger said with a frown. He approached the door, knocking loudly. "April? You in there?"_

_There was no response, and he knocked again, grinning. "Come on, Girl, I won't judge you for playing hooky for a day." Again, nothing. He tried the door handle slowly, eyebrows rising as it turned and the door clicked open. He peeked in carefully._

_Mark would never forget what happened next._

"_NO!" came the desperate voice of his best friend as he rammed the door open the rest of the way and charged in. "NO, NO, NO! April!"_

_Mark sprang into motion, not giving privacy a second thought, and skidded into the bathroom behind Roger._

_The sight that met his eyes almost made him sick. There was his roommate's obviously dead girlfriend, her red hair fanning out against the edge of the bathtub and her eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. The water around her body was dyed a deep crimson, and the sides of the tub were streaked red in a macabre pattern. There was a long, deep slash in each of her wrists._

_Mark just stared, his mind reeling as he tried to process the reality of what he was seeing. He heard Roger give a small moan and he saw him step forward unsteadily, then fall to his knees on the floor. He reached out a hand, running it through the thick red locks. "April," he whispered in a broken tone, and Mark's heart shattered. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening._

_Roger dropped his forehead down to rest against the woman's, his eyes closing in distress. "No, no, no. April." He repeated this mantra over and over, tears slipping down his cheeks to land in the bloody water._

_Mark spun around, not able to handle the sight, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. A quarter of his face was blocked by a small sticky-note plastered against the glass. As he read it, he felt the world crashing down around him._

_WE HAVE AIDS._

_He reached out a shaking hand, slowly pulling the note off the mirror, and read it again. And again. And again. Each time, he desperately hoped that the message would change._

_Swallowing hard, Mark turned around, gazing down at his roommate who was pulling April's body close and causing the tainted water to slosh against the sides of the tub. He bit his lip, taking a few shaky steps and kneeling next to Roger. He blinked rapidly in hope of halting his own tears and put a gentle hand on Roger's back._

_Roger's head turned to look at him, salty tracks streaking his face. His eyes were filled with confusion. "Why'd she do this?" he questioned desperately, his voice husky. He shook his head as more tears fell from his eyes. "I don't get it. Why'd she do this?"_

_Mark raised his arm and apologetically held the yellow note out for his friend. Roger sniffled, staring at it cautiously, and slowly reached out to take it._

_He watched as Roger's green eyes passed over the words. The man stared at the message before shifting his gaze to the blood staining the sides of the tub- and his girlfriend's body. He blinked in disbelief and glanced back at the note, reading it once more as if not quite understanding. Suddenly, his breath began coming faster. He crumpled the news in his hand and dropped it, letting the small paper fall into the red waves and sink as it became saturated with water. He bowed his head and shut his eyes tightly, and Mark could only watch as the tears came again._

_Roger shook his head rapidly, apparently trying to deny the whole situation. "Holy shit," he whispered. "No, no, no, no, no."_

_Mark moved his hand to Roger's shoulder, squeezing gently. He wished he knew what to say, but there was nothing. No words could make this better. He wanted to cry, to mourn the fact that one of his friends was dead and the other was just as good as, but he couldn't. Not right now. Right now, he needed to be the calm one._

_Opening his eyes, Roger stared at his dead girlfriend. He sniffled again, taking a moment to compose himself. Finally, he spoke softly. "It was the fucking drugs. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for the drugs."_

_Mark resisted the urge to agree. Roger was right. April had been the one who'd introduced him to heroin. She'd been using for years, and Mark had no doubt that she'd contracted the virus through a dirty needle. And then passed it to Roger._

"_I'm, uh, I'm going to go call the police." Mark stood up slowly, tearing his eyes away from the scene and heading towards the door. He was stopped by Roger's quiet voice._

"_Wait."_

_He turned around. "What is it?" he asked gently, looking directly into Roger's eyes._

"_I gotta get clean, Mark," Roger breathed. "I can't…" His voice broke, and he ran his hand through April's thick hair once more, a look of utter devastation on his face. "I can't use it, knowing what it's done to her. To us. I have to quit."_

_Mark felt pride wash through him, as well as sadness. He knew that the task would be much harder than Roger thought, but he nodded, returning to kneel at his friend's side once more. His, heart broke a bit at how lost the man looked. "I think that's a good idea," he spoke quietly, squeezing Roger's shoulder. "It's going to be tough, though. You're not going to like it, and you're going to want to use."_

_Roger ripped his eyes away from April's body, turning his head to look at Mark. "Then help me," he pleaded. "Please."_

_Mark nodded, keeping eye contact. "I'll help you, Roger. I promise."_

Mark closed his eyes briefly at the memory. Though neither of them had ever really used the bathtub before the incident—they'd used the small shower on the far side, instead- after April's gruesome death, it was out of the question. It had been days before Roger was able to even walk into the bathroom to use the toilet, and they'd both begun completely ignoring the tub. In fact, Mark realized that he _still_ rarely gave it a glance. He couldn't even remember what it looked like anymore. He much preferred to walk straight past it and spare himself the reminder. And he knew that Roger did the same.

He was about to open his mouth to save his friend an answer, but something in Roger's face stopped him.

The musician looked thoughtful, his forehead creased in the center. His eyes softened from their blank stare, and he actually smiled a bit. Looking up, he nodded. "That sounds good," he said, and Mark's mom grinned back.

Mark couldn't believe it, and he could tell by the look on his friends' faces that they couldn't either.

"I'll, uh, get it started for you," Maureen offered, standing up and walking toward the bathroom. Within seconds, he heard the water turn on and splash into the tub, and Maureen reappeared a moment later.

"Mark, why don't you help him with his hair?" his mom said, turning to him.

He nodded, walking over and reaching out a hand to pull Roger into a standing position. He knew that Roger wasn't thrilled with needing help, but there just wasn't much he could do on his own yet. Mark steadied the man as he swayed on his feet and slowly walked with him towards the bathroom. Mimi quickly snatched a cup out of the kitchen cupboard and followed, her face drawn in curiosity.

As they went inside, Mark noticed that Roger stared directly at the tub, not even flinching. His jaw was set and his eyes betrayed no hint of what he was feeling. It made Mark wonder.

"You okay?" he asked, beginning to gently remove Roger's sling.

Roger simply nodded. "Yeah." He winced a bit as Mark slipped his arm out of the fabric and lowered it to hang limply at his side, which pulled at the shoulder uncomfortably.

Mimi began to unbutton the front of Roger's shirt. She had been standing quietly, but Mark knew that she wanted to make sure that everything was alright. "I'm surprised," she said honestly, undoing the last button. They helped Roger shrug off the shirt, revealing the bandage covering the wound on his chest. "April's death was always so painful for you to talk about." She said this without jealousy or bitterness—it was merely a statement.

"I know," Roger answered quietly, allowing his friends to help him kneel at the edge of the tub, just as he had when he'd found April's body. He leaned against it with his good arm and Mark knelt next to him, providing a solid form for both physical and emotional support. "But it's time."

"Time for what?" Mimi asked, reaching in to feel the temperature of the liquid. Satisfied, she rolled up her sleeves and grabbed the cup she'd brought, filling it with bath water.

Roger let out a sigh. "Time to let it go." His eyes stared into the water and raked the sides of the tub, and Mark imagined that, like himself, Roger was picturing the grisly scene. "I don't want this to haunt me anymore. It's been too long." He looked at Mimi, his love for her showing on his face, and then he turned his head away.

Mark caught his friend's gaze and smiled. He understood the meaning behind the words. Things had been so different back in those days. Roger had been an addict, April had been alive, there'd been no HIV- and there'd been no Mimi. For Roger, this wasn't just conquering the memory of April's suicide. This was leaving that stage of his life behind him. This was accepting that he'd made mistakes, and realizing that he'd learned from them. This was making the decision to let go of the past, and to focus on the present with the people that he cared about _now_.

Mimi grinned. She gently bowed Roger's head over the tub as best she could without hurting him, and slowly poured the warm water over his hair. His partly upright position caused some of the liquid to run down his neck and onto his back, as well as down his face. He closed his eyes to avoid the stream.

"I'm glad," she said, running a hand through his hair as she poured more water, soaking it completely.

Mark grabbed a towel, wiping at the water that was threatening to slither its way down Roger's neck towards the white bandage, and then nodded. "Me too," he said, and he unconsciously ran a hand along the edge of the tub. So much had happened since that day, about three years ago.

He smiled as the clean, clear, blood-less water cascaded over Roger's head and splashed into the tub. His friend was right. It was time to let it go.

* * *

That night, after their friends had left the loft and Mark's parents had returned to Mimi's, he sat down at the table with a book. Mimi was in the shower and Roger was quietly sitting by himself at the window. The man had been staring out into the dark city for the past half an hour, and Mark had been wondering what he was thinking about. Finally, he heard him shift around and stand up, reaching for the door handle. He pushed it open and took a small step outside, and Mark stood up as well.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Roger looked at him innocently. "Just want some fresh air."

Mark put down his book and grabbed a blanket off the couch, following his friend onto the small fire escape. He knew that Roger wouldn't appreciate it, but though the snow had melted and signs of Spring were in the air, it was still cold at night, and the man needed to stay warm.

The chilly air bit his skin as he stepped outside, and he closed the door behind him quietly. Roger was standing at the railing, one hand wrapped around the cool metal, and his eyes were closed in satisfaction, relishing the chill. It was almost funny to see him so refreshed by the outside air. There'd been a time when they couldn't pay him to leave the building, but now he felt trapped after just a couple of days.

Mark gently draped the blanket over Roger's shoulders and joined him at the railing, staring up into the clear night sky. Roger's eyes opened and he gave Mark a smile.

"It feels good out here," he said, taking a deep breath.

Mark nodded in agreement, standing quietly at Roger's side. It was strange. Besides their conversation the day Roger had woken up at the hospital, this was really the first time they'd been alone since the incident. They'd been surrounded by people almost all day, every day. He turned to look at his friend.

"So are you going to be okay with just my parents tomorrow?" The rest of them had agreed to go to work that week, but it was still much too early in his recovery to leave Roger by himself.

Roger smiled. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

He gave the musician a calculating glance. "Don't be afraid to ask them to help you with whatever," he reminded. "They'll be more than willing."

"I know, Mark. I'll be fine."

He nodded and stared down into the street, watching the people walk by. "Can I ask you something?" he questioned suddenly. "If you don't want to answer, that's okay."

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Go for it."

"How are you really doing?" Roger's brow furrowed, and Mark clarified quickly. "I mean, you got stabbed. You almost died. That would, you know, _bother_ most people," he explained awkwardly, "and you haven't really talked about it that much. I just… you're okay, right? Like, mentally?" He felt a little bit uncomfortable bringing it up, but he figured that it must have been a traumatic experience for Roger as well as those who'd been watching. The day before, the cops had stopped by with a picture of the suspect they'd caught, whom Roger and Erin had positively identified as the man who assaulted him, and Mark had been worried then that the photo would spark unhappy memories.

Roger glanced at him and then shifted to lean against the rail for more support. He sighed, looking up at the clear sky once more. "I'm going to tell you something, and you can't laugh, okay?" He spoke with embarrassment, and Mark's interest grew.

"Okay," he agreed.

Roger nodded. "I saw Angel," he revealed reluctantly, and Mark's eyes widened in surprise.

"You saw Angel?"

Another nod. "In the alley." He swallowed, nervously continuing. "You guys were all there and I could see you, and then suddenly, Angel was there, too."

Mark felt a chill run through him. He flashed back to that night, and the minutes passing by as they waited eagerly for the medics. Mark had been worried at the way that Roger's eyes would shift to stare at blank spots past their heads. Had he really been staring at Angel?

Clearing his throat, he asked, "Did she say anything?"

Roger was silent for a moment, and he shook his head in dismissal. "Yeah, but it didn't really make sense. I don't know."

"You know you can tell me," Mark encouraged gently, more than a little curious. "What did she say?"

Roger sighed softly. "She just said, 'Not yet. The song's not over yet.' I don't know what that even means," he added, huffing out a laugh. "She stood there for a little while and she smiled, and then she waved at me and disappeared." He shook his head and gave a small shrug with his left arm. "But, I guess I somehow knew that she was still there. It was weird, but you know how, when she was alive, she had this presence that you could just _feel_?" He looked into Mark's eyes, trying to explain. "It was like that. Almost like she was standing right next to me the whole time, even though I couldn't see her anymore." His questioning eyes burned into Mark's. "You didn't feel it?"

Mark didn't answer for a minute. It was upsetting to think that his best friend had been close enough to death that he'd actually experienced something like that. Finally, he shook his head. "No, I didn't," he admitted, and Roger looked away. Mark reached out to touch his friend's arm, drawing his attention again. "But that doesn't mean she wasn't there," he said. "You were…" he trailed off, trying to find the right words. Eventually, he decided to just spit it out. "You were dying, and you were closer to her in that moment than any of us. Besides, I was too scared to feel anything except fear," he admitted. "Maybe Collins will have felt her, though."

Roger nodded. "Maybe," he said with a hint of disappointment. Mark felt bad. He hadn't meant to shoot Roger down.

"I do believe you," he said honestly. "Just like I believed Mimi when she saw her. I think Angel was looking out for you. I think she looks out for all of us."

Roger's smile returned. "I think so, too," he agreed. He took a deep breath of the chilly air and turned his gaze towards the sky. "And maybe she's not the only one. It makes me think that maybe there really is someone up there who gives a shit about us." He swallowed, his eyebrows furrowing. "I know I should have died, Mark." He turned his green eyes to meet Mark's blue. "I remember _realizing_ that I was going to die. But I didn't. And I want to believe there's a reason for that."

Mark stared at Roger, surprise on his features. He knew that Roger had actually been semi-religious growing up. Not overly so, but he'd gone to church when his mother dragged him along, just as Mark had succumbed to his mother and father's Jewish faith. And though Roger had never been the most devout Christian, he'd adopted some of those beliefs as his own. At least, he had until he was let down one too many times.

"I thought you said you'd given up on God," Mark said quietly, not trying to offend his friend, but just trying to understand why he'd changed his mind.

"I had, but that was because I thought he'd given up on me. Now, I'm not so sure." He shook his head. "All I know is that I probably shouldn't be here, but I am, and I'm glad of that. For whatever reason, I've been given more time."

Mark nodded, a grin forming on his face. "I'm glad, too." He glanced at Roger, who seemed to be losing the energy he'd had and struggling to stand up straight. He turned back towards the loft. "Come on, it's time to go in. Mimi's going to have my ass if she sees that I let you out."

Roger rolled his eyes. "I'm not a dog," he defended, pushing himself away from the railing carefully. "I don't need to be 'let out'."

With a smirk, Mark opened the door. Unable to resist the childish urge, he raised his voice and patted his thighs in encouragement. "Come, Roger," he joked. "Come here." Roger glared at him as he shuffled his way in, but Mark wasn't done yet. "Good boy," he praised, ruffling Roger's now-clean hair in a teasing manner. "Sit," he commanded, pointing to the couch.

Roger flipped him off. "Keep it up and you're gonna get bitten," he warned, brushing his messy hair down stubbornly and planting himself firmly on the cushions.

Mark snickered, fully aware that the threat was empty. He wasn't particularly scared of Roger at this point in time. However, he also wasn't going to make fun of his friend too much. There was real frustration behind his inability for independence, and Mark knew where to draw the line.

He returned to the kitchen table and picked up his book, his mind replaying the conversation that they'd just had. He peeked over at Roger, who was reaching for his notepad and a pencil. "Hey, Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what exactly it was that saved you that night," he revealed honestly. "Whether it was Angel, or God, or your own willpower, or some combination of the three, but whatever it was, I'll never be able to thank it enough." He smiled at his friend, who was staring at him with a kind understanding in his eyes. "I'm glad you were given more time."

"Me too, Mark. Me too."


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello all! I'm glad I finally got this one up. I'm trying to get Roger healthy again, but it's taking longer than I expected... From what I've read, it looks like it would take well over a month to fully recover from the blood loss he experienced, so I'm trying to keep things realistic without being boring! I'll do my best to get him back on his feet ASAP :)**

**Also, please don't be concerned that Erin is going to become a major character who steals everybody else's thunder... I know I'm always a bit wary when I read stories that have OC's. The focus of this story is, and will always be, the Mark and Roger friendship, because really, we all know it deserves an entire story to itself!**

**Last thing, the song in this chapter is a great one called I Won't Back Down, originally by Tom Petty. If you know the song, imagine a slower, acoustic version and you'll see what I'm aiming for here.**

**Whew. I'm done. Enjoy :)**

**Chapter 19**

April 18, 1992

Mark woke up slowly, relishing the fact that it was Saturday and he didn't have to go to work. He remained tucked under the covers, drifting peacefully in a half-awake state and enjoying the warmth of the bed.

That is, until he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head.

"Ouch!" he grunted, jerking his hand up to protectively cover the area and rubbing lightly. He reached for his glasses and put them on, immediately spotting the tan rubber band lying innocently on his pillow. He picked it up with confusion and turned himself over, squinting blurrily at the door to his bedroom. The figure standing there was smiling in satisfaction.

"Hey, that was a good shot!" Roger said proudly, his hands frozen in the position from which he'd launched the missile. His right arm was still in the sling and would be for another couple of weeks, so he'd shot the thing from about stomach-height, and he'd somehow managed to get a direct hit. Mark glared in annoyance.

"What the fuck, Roger?" he grumbled, collapsing backward into the pillows. He was a little pissed off that he hadn't heard his door open, and therefore had no chance to defend himself from the attack. Not able to resist the urge, he sat up quickly and sent the rubber band back in in retaliation.

The musician quickly put his left hand down to block it, but he missed and it ended up snapping him in the thigh. He let out a small squeak of protest, and Mark smirked. Roger carefully bent down to pick the rubber band up off the floor, swaying slightly to the right as he stood up. Once Mark was completely certain that his friend wasn't going to fall over, he raised an eyebrow in intense confusion, staring suspiciously. "Why are you even awake? You're _never_ up before me."

"We're meeting Collins, Mo, and Jo for breakfast," Roger announced brightly. "Hurry, I'm starving."

Mark heard another voice coming from just outside his door. "Give him a minute, Roger!" Mimi admonished with exasperation, appearing next to the musician in the doorway. She smiled at Mark. "Take your time. Someone's just a little excited to be getting out of the house," she explained, indicating the man standing beside her.

Roger gave her an unappreciative look and she laughed. There was no denying that Roger was more than a bit antsy, but they couldn't really blame him. He'd been lying around the loft for almost two weeks while he recuperated, and the week before that had been spent in the hospital. His activities were still highly restricted, and the only time he'd been out of the building since he'd gotten hurt was to visit the doctor's office. The good news was that he was definitely healing; his skin was still paler than he'd been before the accident, but he looked better. The stiches had come out over a week earlier and the wound was forming a raised, bright pink scar. However, the area was still very tender, and an accidental bump or movement was painful for him. As the doctor warned, he was still suffering from dizziness and a lack of energy. He napped often, and it was normal for him to push himself up from the couch only to freeze and sit back down again as the room spun too ferociously. It was only about three days ago that they'd finally felt safe leaving him alone at the loft for any extended period of time, which meant that Mark's parents had been free to return to Scarsdale. His mom had hugged them both tightly and made Mark promise to keep in touch and to call if they needed anything.

"Come on, let Mark get ready," Mimi demanded, gently grabbing Roger by the left elbow and dragging him away from the door. He stumbled after her a little clumsily, disappearing from view.

Mark pushed himself out of bed, reluctantly sacrificing the cozy sheets for the cool draft wafting through his room. He made quick work of pulling on some clothes and he grabbed a warm sweater. The weather was slowly beginning to heat up, but it was still too cold to be comfortable, particularly in the mornings and at night.

Entering the living room, he found Roger at the kitchen table, impatiently tapping his fingers against the metal. He was leaning over an old newspaper, and Mark curiously walked up behind him, peering at the text. He recognized the familiar heading and put a reassuring hand on Roger's good shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"Soon," he encouraged. The paper was the one in which Carl Batterton had written about the band. They'd all agreed that they needed to keep a couple copies of it for sentimental value, and every once in a while they'd find one around the loft.

"Yeah, you know, I was thinking…" Roger began, leaving the sentence hanging as he formulated his thoughts.

There was silence as they waited for him to continue. When he didn't, Mimi chuckled and joked, "Well that's never good." She was in the middle of cleaning out the coffee pot, and she shot a teasing smile in his direction.

Roger ignored the jibe. "I was thinking that maybe I could go to the show tonight," he revealed quickly.

Mark and Mimi both froze and looked at each other nervously before shifting their gazes back to him.

"I don't know, Rog," Mimi responded slowly, her brow furrowing as she abandoned her task and turned to face them. "It's only been about three weeks, Baby. Besides, you can't even play your guitar," she reminded.

Mark understood where she was coming from. He wasn't crazy about Roger going to the show either. Leaving the loft for breakfast was one thing, but being surrounded by a crowd of people who would be jostling him back and forth was another. Mark didn't know if Roger was physically strong enough for that yet. Frankly, he still looked quite ill. However, he'd also noticed his friend's discouragement at the period it was taking for him to recover, and though Roger tried not to mope around the house, there were times when Mark had no idea how to lift his spirits.

Roger looked at her with eyes that were pleading for understanding. "I know," he said, "but I don't have to play. I can just sing. Or even watch." He half-shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Anyway, I'm not asking permission. I'm telling you that I'm going."

Mark almost rolled his eyes at his friend's stubbornness, but he restrained himself. Roger had now missed three weeks' worth of shows, though he'd been keeping in contact with Jeff and the others. The Well Hungarians had been playing modified versions of their gigs when they got the opportunity, but it was difficult when their lead singer and guitarist was missing. There were quite a few songs that they couldn't perform, but they were able to rearrange some of the others to fit their voices and the remaining instruments. Luckily, their fan-base was quite understanding and dedicated, and came to support the band while they waited for their frontman to return.

Taking a seat in the chair next to his friend, Mark avoided commenting and instead locked gazes with Mimi, silently conversing through an exchange of looks.

Roger glared back and forth between them, recognizing the fact that they were consulting about him. "Come on, I'm getting better!" he defended semi-angrily, trying to get them on his side. Mark knew that Roger was serious when he said he wasn't asking for permission, but he also knew that, in his condition, the man really shouldn't go by himself, and probably would have a tough time getting there alone. And though he would never admit it, it was fairly obvious that Roger was aware of that fact, as well.

Mark let out a sigh. "Yeah, you are," he conceded, "but you're not one hundred percent. You definitely can't sing a show, Rog," he said, shaking his head and hoping that Roger would listen to him. "You'd wear yourself out, and you'd probably set your recovery back. You're supposed to be resting." Roger gave no indication that he'd heard, and Mark continued. "But, I think it would be okay for you to watch, as long as you stay off your feet."

Roger looked at him hopefully, his eyes wide. "Do you want to come with me?"

Mark nodded, giving a smile. "Of course."

Roger gave a satisfied grin, more than a little happy at the news. Mimi approached them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "Thanks for the invite," she said sarcastically, brushing a hand over her boyfriend's recently-shortened and re-dyed hair. She'd trimmed it the day before, at his request. It had been getting longer in the past month or so, and he'd debated over growing it out like it had been when he and Mimi met, but decided against it. Mark figured that it reminded him too much of the past. It had only grown out in the first place because getting it cut was last on their list of priorities while Roger had been in heroin withdrawal.

Roger smirked cheekily. "You can come, too, I guess," he offered belatedly, gently teasing.

"Damn right I'm coming."

"But," Mark said seriously, making sure that Roger was paying attention, "we're taking the bus this time. No way you're walking that far." Mimi made a small noise of agreement, and Roger accepted with an eager nod.

_Maybe it's good for him to get out of the loft_, Mark thought. A little exercise wouldn't hurt him, and if he did get dizzy or tired, they'd be right there to help. Besides, he felt bad that his friend had to miss so many shows, especially right after the journalist had promoted his band. Jeff said that people had been constantly inquiring as to how Roger was feeling and whether he'd be back soon, so it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to show up and talk to them.

"Cool," Roger said with a wide smile. "Thanks."

Mark and Mimi nodded, their lips curled into grins as well.

"Come on," Mark said suddenly as he stood up. "I thought you were starving. I know I am." He grabbed his camera off of the table and tucked it under his arm.

"Me too," Roger confirmed enthusiastically as he pushed himself back and stood carefully. Out of habit, Mark reached out a hand to steady him, pulling it away quickly when he saw that it wasn't needed. Roger snatched his now-clean leather jacket off of the back of his chair, the bloodstains having been washed out as soon as they'd brought it home, and deftly managed to wiggle his left arm in. He pulled the right side up over his shoulder, letting the sleeve hang limply. Mark followed his bouncing friend to the door, laughing out loud as Roger excitedly reached for the handle, practically wiggling in his eagerness to venture out of the loft for the first time in weeks.

Mimi chuckled and grabbed her own coat. "Wow, you really _do_ need to get out," she snickered, raising an eyebrow as she pulled the jacket on and swept the loft with a searching gaze. Mark nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, so hurry up and let's _goooo_," the musician whined, not pleased with the way that Mimi was taking her time.

"Alright, alright, just a minute." Mimi's eyes finally landed on the object of her search, and she seized her purse off of the couch before joining them and motioning for Roger to open the door. "Lead the way. But take it easy," she reminded with a little bit of worry in her voice. "You're not supposed to be doing too much physical activity."

Roger brushed off her concern. "I'm fine, let's go," he repeated, sliding open the metal door and practically charging towards the stairs, slowing down with caution as he began to descend. Mark shook his head with a grin and followed more slowly, Mimi at his side.

"Ten bucks says he doesn't make it through breakfast," she whispered, turning to Mark with a smirk.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering the amount of energy that Roger seemed to have that morning. "I'll give him until we get back. But then, less than five minutes 'til he's out like a light."

Mimi laughed. "Deal."

* * *

An hour and a half later, Mark smirked in satisfaction. "Pay up," he gloated, holding out a hand. He was staring in amusement at his friend, fast asleep on the couch only moments after they'd walked in the door.

Mimi sighed. "Damn." She dug a ten dollar bill out of her wallet, handing it over. "I was sure he'd crash sooner."

Collins laughed quietly, watching the exchange with a grin. "Nah, not when there was food to be had," he joked. He turned back to the magazine he was flipping through, Maureen and Joanne looking over his shoulders. "So you guys think he'll be okay going to the show tonight?"

Mark nodded. "Don't you?" he questioned with a concerned glance back at the couch. "He'll be tired, but as long as he's not moving around too much, I think he'll be okay." He shrugged. "Besides, he needs to get out a bit. You saw how thrilled he was just to be at the Life this morning."

They all chuckled at the memory. Roger had been like a child, his eyes bright and constantly smiling. It had been great to see, actually. They all knew he was beyond frustrated with his invalidity, and it was nice to see him have a little fun.

"You're right. I'll probably tag along. It's been a while since we've seen the boys," Collins added, and Maureen and Joanne nodded.

"We'd planned on going," Maureen put in. She laughed a bit and shrugged. "It's kind of tradition now. I've actually missed it the past few weeks."

Mark understood the feeling, and he knew that Roger was definitely ready to get back to his normal routine, too. If he could at least play the guitar, his recovery would be so much more bearable. Mark had been spending a fair amount of time practicing his chords, but he'd felt a little uncomfortable playing when Roger couldn't. It was obvious that his friend missed it, and there'd been multiple times when Mark had caught him staring longingly at the red Fender, or running his callused fingers over its neck.

"Yeah, me too," he agreed. "It'll be fun."

Their conversation was interrupted by one loud ring of the phone, which immediately transitioned into the answering machine.

"Speeeeeeaaaaaakkkkkk."

"Hey Mark, Roger, it's Erin…"

Mark jumped into motion, heading towards the receiver. He quickly reached for it and held it up to his ear, ignoring the strange looks that the others sent his way.

"Erin?"

"Hey, Mark! How's it going?"

He smiled. "Good! It's going good. What about you?"

"Not bad," she answered. Her tone was warm and friendly. "I just wanted to check in and see how Roger was doing. I was thinking about stopping by to visit."

They'd given her the address to the loft when they'd first brought Roger home, and she'd dropped in to say hello and check up on him. She'd also been diligent about calling frequently and asking if there was anything that they needed. Mark knew that she still felt guilty, regardless of how many times he and Roger assured her that it wasn't her fault.

"He's doing well," Mark promised, peeking at his friend briefly and chuckling a bit. "I'd tell you to go ahead and come by but, uh, he's currently passed out on the couch. It's been an exciting morning for him."

She made a little noise of surprise. "Oh, really? What did you guys do?"

Mark laughed. "Nothing, really. Just went across the street for breakfast."

She laughed as well, and Mark couldn't help but continue smiling. She had the kind of laugh that made you happy just by hearing it.

"Well, damn," she said. "I was hoping to get out of this place today, but maybe I'll come by another time."

Mark felt his heart drop a bit. "No!" he said quickly. "No, why don't you come by anyway? We're all just hanging out here, and Roger will probably be up in an hour or so. We're going to go watch his band play tonight. You're welcome to come."

"Really?" She sounded surprised and pleased, and she paused in thought for a moment. "You know, I think I will. If everybody's okay with it, I'll head over in just a few."

Mark nodded, smiling. "Yeah, they'd love to have you!" he comforted. He hadn't asked, but he knew that was true. They all liked her, and it would be nice to spend some time getting to know her better.

"Great, thanks Mark! It was getting awful lonely around my place. It'll be nice to spend time with something other than my cat."

"Sure," he answered with a snicker. "We'll see you soon then?"

"Yeah, be there in a bit."

"Okay, talk to you later."

"Bye!"

Mark hung up, a smile still plastered on his face, and he turned to meet four pairs of eyes staring at him, brows raised and amusement shining through.

"You _totally _like her!" Maureen accused loudly, and Mark put a shushing finger to his lips, pointing at Roger, who didn't even stir at the noise.

"I do not," he defended, lowering the tone of his voice. "I just didn't want her to spend the day alone."

Maureen smirked, shrugging. "Whatever," she put in flippantly, and Mark noticed that Joanne and Mimi were trying to stifle their own smiles. Collins, on the other hand, was grinning like a maniac.

"You're not a good liar," he snickered.

Mark scoffed. "Look, I'm just trying to be nice, okay? So please, make her feel welcome."

Mimi nodded. "Of course. I like Erin. It'll be nice to see her again."

"Thank you," Mark said, appreciating her support.

"Mark, all I'm saying is you should get on that," Maureen explained, obviously not ready to let the issue go.

Mark sighed in annoyance, starting to regret the whole thing. However, when he remembered Erin's kind eyes and warm smile, the second-thoughts disappeared and he grinned. So what if they teased him? Right now, he wanted to spend time in her presence, and he'd take any opportunity he could get.

* * *

The day passed in comfortable companionship. Once Roger had woken up and they hadn't felt bad about making too much noise, they'd spent the hours laughing and joking, telling stories about their pasts.

Mark was just in the middle of a middle-school memory that the conversation had sparked, a grin on his face as he told the story. "So Roger and I are running desperately to get away from this neighbor, who I swear to God was about seven feet tall…"

"And built like an ox," Roger added.

"And he's like ten feet behind us, so we're hauling ass, and then Roger fucking _falls_," Mark recounted with a laugh, shaking his head at his friend, who raised a hand in defense.

"It was slippery! There was snow!"

"So anyway, the guy grabs Roger, and of course, I couldn't leave him alone, so he hauls both of us back to my house and knocks on the door. And when my mom answers, he proceeds to tell her about the 'inappropriate sculptures'," he made air quotes with his fingers, "we were building in his yard. Which was ridiculous, by the way. They were pieces of art," he finished proudly.

Roger nodded in agreement. "Apparently," he said, "when you _paint_ naked ladies, it's art, but when you build them out of snow in the neighbor's yard, it's vandalism." He shook his head, a small smirk on his lips. "Who would have guessed?"

The group chuckled loudly, and Mark smiled as Erin gently touched his shoulder, her eyes closed in amusement as she laughed. Her dark hair was hanging freely down her back, and she was wearing a casual sweater that seemed to be practical and cozy, but fit her well.

"Hey, we should get going soon," Maureen said moments later, looking at her watch. "It's 7:30."

Roger perked up from his place on the couch, his eyes widening in excitement. He'd been slouched down, half sitting, half lying, but the words caused him to jump into motion. "Yes! Let's go." He hopped up quickly, and was tilting sideways almost instantly as the vertigo hit. He looked as though there was no hope of recovery. They all made a move to get to his side, frantic worry on their faces, but Collins and Mark made it first, catching him around the waist and lowering him back to the couch.

"Shit, Roger, take it easy," Mark chided, his heart beating a little too fast as he took a seat next to his friend. He hated when Roger wasn't careful because if he did fall, Mark was worried he'd be too disoriented to be able to protect his head and shoulder from bouncing off the floor. It was times like this, after he'd been lying or sitting for an extended period of time, that the worst of the dizziness affected him.

"Seriously, man, you're not healthy yet," Collins added, his own face set in a frown. "You can't be jumping around like that." There were small noises of agreement from Mimi, Joanne, and Maureen, who had sprang up from their seats.

Roger grunted out an understanding, his eyes closed tightly and subconsciously leaning into Mark's shoulder due to his poor balance. He swallowed hard while he waited for the nausea to pass and Mark glanced at Erin, who had also reached out to help, and was now standing quietly and staring at Roger with sad eyes.

"He's okay," Mark assured quietly from his place at Roger's side, a hand on his friend's back. He looked at her kindly, hoping to soothe her upset expression. "Just got a little too excited."

Roger opened his eyes and searched for Erin, focusing with difficulty and giving her a smile. He began to stand up again, slowly this time, and Mark and Collins supported him with gentle hands. "See," Roger said, though he was still wobbling. "Good as new." He took a couple of shaky steps, his confidence growing with each one as the spinning became bearable.

Erin gave a small, unconvincing nod, avoiding eye contact with him and looking at the ground.

"Hey," Roger said softly, approaching her slowly. "Seriously, Erin, please don't feel bad." He reached out and touched her shoulder, and she raised glistening eyes to meet his. Mark didn't like seeing the pain there. He wished she'd stop feeling guilty. Roger smiled at her. "I promise, I'm fine," he said firmly, not breaking her gaze. "And I don't regret anything. We're glad we were able to help," he said, motioning to the rest of them, who nodded in agreement, "and we're glad that you got away." Roger shook his head. "He had that knife at your throat, and he would have hurt you a lot more than he hurt me."

Mark shivered as he thought about what _could _have happened. Roger almost died from a wound to the shoulder… How fast would one to the throat kill you?

Erin stared at Roger for a long moment, tears falling from her eyes and making their way down her cheek. Finally, she smiled and pulled him into an embrace, avoiding his injury. "Thank you," she said sincerely, hugging him tightly. Mark smiled at the content look on her face, the lack of worry and guilt making her seem even younger than she was. "Thank you so much."

Roger held her for a minute, allowing her the feeling of knowing that he was okay, and she finally released him. She laughed lightly, brushing at his shirt where she'd left tear stains and smeared mascara. "I'm sorry," she said in embarrassment, but he grinned.

"Don't worry about it. I don't really like this shirt anyway."

Mark got up and grabbed a tissue from the box in the bathroom, returning to the living room and handing it over. "Thanks," she said. She wiped her eyes, snorting slightly in amusement, and then looked around at the rest of them. "Well, I'm a mess," she announced, observing the make-up smeared onto her fingers, and they laughed.

"Here, come with me," Mimi said with a giggle. "I have some extra make-up downstairs. You're welcome to borrow it."

Erin nodded gratefully. "Thanks, that sounds great," she said with relief. Before making their way to the door, she turned and pulled Mark into a hug as well. He was surprised, not quite sure what it was for, but he wrapped his arms around her in return. "Thanks for inviting me over today," she said quietly. "I needed that."

Mark smiled, hands pressed lightly against her back as he held her close. "You're welcome. Anytime."

She hugged him for a moment longer, and then let go, following Mimi to the door. Once they'd exited, Mark glanced at Roger, who was still standing somewhat unsteadily.

"You okay?" he asked. He knew that Roger had probably put on a bit of a front while Erin had been there in order to dispel her guilt.

"Yeah, I'm just going to step outside for a second, get some fresh air. Want to join?"

Mark nodded, following his friend slowly to the fire escape. They walked out into the cool night, and they both breathed deeply.

"So," Roger said, leaning on the railing. "Erin's a pretty girl," he stated with a knowing smile, and Mark grinned guiltily, aware that he'd been caught.

"Yeah, she is," he confirmed, picturing her long brown hair, dark eyes, and bright smile. With the others, he'd pretend that he didn't have feelings for her because it was expected of him. But with Roger, it was different. "I like her. She seems so down to Earth, you know? We don't see enough of that in New York."

Roger nodded. "Yeah." He nudged Mark gently with an elbow. "I think you've got a good chance. You should try to spend some time with her alone. Get to know her a little better."

Mark shrugged. "Maybe eventually. But right now, this is easier."

Roger laughed lightly. "I hear that." He breathed in deeply once more and straightened up, glancing down at the make-up smeared on his shirt. He smiled. "I should change."

Mark smirked. "Good plan." He helped Roger remove the sling so he could get his shirt off, and they went inside. Roger disappeared into his room, returning a couple minutes later. It was slow going, but he was finally able to do the buttons on his shirts by himself, as long as he only moved his elbow and not his shoulder. Mark securely fastened his arm back into place, tightening the straps of the sling around his neck and back just as the girls re-entered.

"Ready!" Mimi announced, walking over to Roger's side and putting an arm around his waist. Erin looked better, and she was smiling happily as she walked in.

"Let's get out of here," Maureen suggested, grabbing a coat and heading towards the door. Mark followed, smiling at Erin as he happened to fall into step beside her. He glanced back at Roger, who was placing a kiss on Mimi's head as they started toward the door, her arms wrapped tightly around him as they walked. He sighed with content. Yes, this would be fun.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

April 18, 1992

Roger was given a warm welcome by his band when he sought them out before the show. They'd hugged him tightly and asked how he was feeling, and then the four of them had disappeared behind the stage, discussing the plan for the night. Mark and the others grabbed a table well out of the way of where people would be standing, knowing that Roger would need to sit for most of it.

Finally, just minutes before the band was supposed to come on stage, Roger returned and lowered himself into a chair, a smile on his face.

"What's going on, Babe?" Mimi questioned, and Roger shrugged casually.

"Nothing. Just talking with the boys."

She nodded, and Collins tapped Joanne on the shoulder, motioning for her to follow him. They got up and disappeared, returning after a few minutes with handfuls of beers, which they set carefully on the table and began passing around. Roger reached out to take one, but Mark grabbed his wrist.

"Nope, not for you," he chided, and Collins nodded in agreement. Eyes twinkling, he handed over one glass filled with soda.

"_This_ one's yours," he explained with a small smirk. "Sorry, Man."

Mark chuckled at Roger's unhappy frown, but he didn't care whether his friend wanted a drink or not. The man was still taking painkillers, which, luckily, he'd had no problems with, and he wasn't supposed to be drinking alcohol.

"Cheers," Mimi said with a teasing smile, tapping her beer against Roger's soda and taking a sip. He glared at her, but eventually raised the glass to his lips in acceptance.

The room suddenly exploded into noise as the band took the stage, and people began forming a crowd down in front. Roger grinned in satisfaction.

The band played a few songs that Mark recognized as Roger's lyrics, though the arrangements were a little different, and they also played a few covers of well-known artists. Jeff was doing the singing and he had a good voice, but it wasn't as distinctive and powerful as Roger's. They changed up the solos a bit in an effort to make the missing guitar seem less noticeable.

Mark glanced at the others and immediately noticed the way that Erin was nodding her head with the music. She seemed to be enjoying it, but he wished she'd been able to see them while Roger was performing. The show just didn't feel complete.

About four songs into their set, Jeff took off his electric guitar and approached the microphone. "Hey guys, we want to take a minute to thank all of you for supporting us these last few weeks. As you know, we've been missing a vital member of our band. We're doing our best, but we all know that he's irreplaceable and we've been missing him."

There was a loud cheer from the crowd as they clapped and hollered in agreement. Mark grinned, taking a peek at Roger, who looked slightly overwhelmed at the love from the fans. It was funny, though. Their table was so far out of the way that nobody had even noticed that the missing frontman was, in fact, present.

Jeff smiled at the crowd widely. "But tonight, we do have a special guest who's going to sing with us."

Roger stood up slowly to avoid a dizzy spell, and they all glanced at him in confusion. Mimi's eyes narrowed, making the connection, and she growled quietly, "Roger…"

He smirked guiltily. "One song," he promised, holding up a finger before keeping close to the wall and walking the short distance to the front of the room.

Mark's mouth hung open in silent surprise, and he looked around at the others. They stared silently between each other for a brief moment before shaking their heads in nods of disapproval, and Mimi put her face into her hands, rubbing her temples. They should have expected something like this. There was no way that Roger would be content to sit back and not participate.

"We hope you'll give him a very warm welcome," Jeff added. "Give it up for Roger Davis!" he announced with a huge grin and motioned towards the side of the stage. Roger walked up the steps with a steadying hand on the railing and when he entered into the bright lights, the crowd roared with excitement. They whooped and whistled, laughing and yelling things like "We missed you!" and "We love you, Roger!"

Roger smiled brightly at the audience, joining Jeff at center stage and accepting a gentle hug from him. He got the same welcome from Cam and Jason, who had abandoned their instruments and were standing in the background.

Mark was a upset with his friend for not telling them his plan, but he couldn't help but smile. It was damn good to see him up there again. He grabbed his camera and turned it on, pointing it towards the stage.

Jeff gladly handed the microphone over to Roger, and they spoke a couple words to each other privately, though nothing could be heard over the crowd, who was still cheering. The noise had developed into a chant of, 'RO-GER, RO-GER, RO-GER." Roger lifted the microphone to his lips. "Thank you," he said, and the crowd continued hollering right over him, not ready to settle down just yet. Mark grinned when Roger laughed softly in embarrassment. He turned to Jeff and shrugged his left shoulder, not entirely sure how to proceed over the ruckus. Jeff shrugged as well, and he reached for the microphone, speaking loudly into it.

"Just let them get it out, Man," he joked, his voice echoing, and the audience laughed through their cheers, finally quieting down enough for the performers to continue. Jeff handed the mic back to Roger.

"I want to thank you guys for being here, also," Roger began, looking over the room. "We couldn't ask for a better crowd to perform for. I'm sorry that I haven't been here, but I think these guys are doing a great job of keeping things going. Anyway, I'm going to try to get back as soon as I can. I miss this, and I miss you guys," he confessed, smiling. "I guess I just couldn't stay away tonight."

There was another round of cheers and more endearing responses yelled back at him, and Roger held out the microphone for Jeff, allowing him to take the lead.

"So, we're going to do a song that we've never done before," Jeff explained. "Roger wrote it. It's a great one to sing to if you play the guitar. Real easy tune," he said, accepting the acoustic-electric guitar from Jason. "It's more mellow than the stuff we usually do, but since our friend here isn't quite up to par, we want him to take it easy. Can we get some chairs?" Jeff asked suddenly, looking off stage. He jerked a thumb in Roger's direction, a teasing smile on his face. "His girlfriend's going to murder me if he falls over." There was a small round of chuckles from the crowd, particularly the men.

Mark glanced at Mimi, whose face had broken into a smile despite her disapproval.

Somebody lifted a couple stools onto the stage, which Jason grabbed and carried into the center, placing one behind Jeff and one behind Roger. Mark was happy when Roger sat down. He had no idea if belting out a song would drain his energy or cause the dizziness to hit, so it was best that he was off his feet. Jeff took a seat as well, and Jason and Cam stood off to the side, their instruments not needed.

"Ready?" Jeff asked, handing the microphone back to Roger, who took it with his left hand.

Roger smiled. "Ready."

Jeff gave a nod and adjusted his guitar, and then began playing a nice little melody. Roger sat quietly for a moment, tapping his foot with the music, and lifted the microphone to begin singing. The lyrics were calm and didn't require him to work too hard to hit the notes, and Mark began to relax.

_Well I won't back down, no I won't back down_  
_You could stand me up at the gates of hell_  
_But I won't back down_

_Gonna stand my ground, won't be turned around_  
_And I'll keep this world from draggin' me down_  
_Gonna stand my ground, and I won't back down_

_Hey baby, there ain't no easy way out_  
_Hey I will stand my ground_  
_And I won't back down_

_Well I know what's right, I got just one life_  
_In a world that keeps on pushin' me around_  
_But I'll stand my ground and I won't back down_

_Hey baby there ain't no easy way out_  
_Hey I will stand my ground_  
_And I won't back down_

_Hey baby there ain't no easy way out_  
_Hey I will stand my ground_  
_And I won't back down_

Mark grinned as his friend closed his eyes and sang, his voice rough but soothing at the same time. It seemed like forever since they'd heard him sing. The guitar faded out as the song ended, and the crowd broke out into cheers again, clapping just as loudly, if not louder, for the casual, last minute performance as they did for any of the others.

The men on stage smiled and Jeff put down his guitar. Cam came up behind Roger and put a hand on the back of his neck, leaning down and speaking words into his ear. Roger nodded, smiling widely.

"Thanks, guys," Roger said sincerely into the microphone, an almost shy smile on his face. Mark could tell that he wasn't quite sure how to handle all the attention aimed directly at him rather than the band as a whole.

Jeff reached for the microphone. "As much as we'd love to have Roger sing the rest of the show with us," he told the crowd, "he's still not feeling great, so we're going to let him off the hook and have him watch from the comfort of his seat." He smiled at Roger, who gave a reluctant nod. Jeff stood and Roger followed more slowly. Mark could see him take a quick step sideways after straightening up, his balance off. Jason reached out and grabbed his arm, and Mark internally thanked him for his reflexes. He held on tightly until Roger oriented himself. Mark knew that his friend probably wasn't thrilled with his small stumble in front of the crowd, but nobody laughed. They merely remained respectfully quiet, and clapped loudly when he began making his way towards the stairs, Jason at his side just in case. "There you go, give it up for him!" Jeff encouraged, and the crowd continued clapping as Roger left the stage and returned to the table. Mark knew that there would be a mass of people coming to speak to the musician now that they were aware of his presence, but he didn't mind.

Roger sat down heavily at the table, breathing a little harder than normal. He thanked Jason, who ruffled his hair affectionately before returning to the stage.

They all stared at Roger, who was grinning brightly despite the spent energy, and they couldn't help but smile, too.

"Nice job, Rog," Mark praised warmly, putting down his camera and catching the ecstatic glint in Roger's eye. It was amazing how music could improve his mood.

Collins chortled in a low tone. "Should have figured you'd pull something like that," he said. "But it was good to see you up there."

"Thanks," Roger said warmly, and Mimi grabbed his hand, wrapping it in her own.

"I'm proud of you," she said, playing with his fingers, "but I'm also mad at you for keeping us out of the loop."

He laughed. "I know. I'm sorry."

Erin was watching the exchange with amusement, and she shook her head. "I had no idea you sang like that," she admitted, and Roger shrugged, smiling.

Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupted their conversation. "Roger?"

They turned towards the source, interest on their faces, and Mark immediately recognized Carl Batterton, the man who'd written about Roger's band.

He smiled at them in greeting, and Roger's eyes widened. "Mr. Batterton!" He made a move to stand up quickly, which worried Mark, but the journalist stopped him.

"Don't get up," he said kindly. "And you can call me Carl." He took a couple of steps around the table so he ended up next to Roger's seat and put a hand on his good shoulder. "I just wanted to see how you were feeling. I talked to Jeff and the others at the last show. It sounded like a pretty nasty accident. They said you were in the hospital for almost a week."

"Yeah," Roger admitted. "But I'm getting better. Hopefully it won't be much longer."

"Glad to hear it."

"Hey, I want to thank you for that piece you wrote on us," Roger said suddenly, his tone sincere as he stared up at the man. "That was incredible."

Carl nodded. "You boys deserved it. Unfortunately, it was timed horribly with your injury," he added. "I've been going to some of your shows the past few weeks, and it looks like you've been getting some new faces."

Roger nodded guiltily, and Mark could tell he was trying not to show how upset he was about missing those gigs. "Yeah. I wanted to be there, but…" He shook his head and sighed. "I honestly don't think I could have made it through a show," he confessed. Mark raised an eyebrow. He knew it killed Roger to admit that.

Carl squeezed his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it. I'm not trying to make you feel bad. It's completely understandable that you couldn't be there." He smiled. "Quite frankly, I'm surprised you're here right now. You look like you're still healing."

Roger smirked, raising an eyebrow. "That sounds like a polite way of telling me that I look like shit."

Carl laughed loudly, though the music drowned it out. "Well, yeah, it is," he agreed jokingly. Mark liked this guy. He didn't seem like the sleazy type that normally wrote in the newspaper. He was much more companionable, and his interest in Roger as a person seemed to be genuine. "You know, I'd actually like to write another piece if you'd allow it," Carl said suddenly. "I really do think you guys should be getting more media attention, and this whole thing about you stopping a mugging would be a good story to put out there. People like to hear that kind of stuff."

Mark watched Roger carefully as the man spoke, noticing the way that his expression dropped slightly. The musician avoided their gazes. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I don't think it's really that big of a deal." He reached out to take a drink of his soda, and Mark could tell that he was uncomfortable.

"I do," Erin said softly, watching Roger with her pretty eyes. He glanced up to meet her expression, and she smiled shyly. "I think you should let him write it. I want people to know that you helped me."

"Oh!" Carl said in surprise. "You're the woman?" She nodded. "I'm glad to see that you're also well," he told her, and she thanked him quietly.

Joanne chimed in from across the table. "It really is kind of a big deal, Roger," she said, staring at him with knowing eyes. "You don't need to be embarrassed about getting credit for it."

Mark nodded, immediately aware that Joanne had hit it right on the money. Roger wasn't a cocky person. He pretended to be sometimes, when people obviously knew he was kidding, but he was never cocky about things that truly mattered to him. And the fact that a journalist wanted to feature him in a story that would no doubt put him in a hero's light was something that he resented.

Roger shook his head stubbornly. "I don't deserve any more credit than you guys. You would have done the exact same thing. I just got there first." He shrugged his left shoulder, keeping his right arm motionless in the sling.

"Yeah, maybe," Mark said. They obviously would have tried, but he doubted any of them except Collins would have been able to unbalance the mugger as well as Roger had. And even then, Roger was scrappier than Collins, and definitely more of a fighter. Mark knew his friend had been in quite a few brawls, even while they were in school. He'd learned how to tussle with people, and he was good at it. Whether someone other than Roger would have been able to drag the guy away from Erin was debatable. "I think you should do it, too," he added. "Carl's right. It would be good for the band. And people who came to shows that you missed would probably feel more compelled to try again." He didn't want Roger to give up an opportunity like this. It was too good.

"If it's more comfortable," Carl put in, "I won't even interview you directly. I'll talk to your friends, and I'll explain that they helped out, as well. After all, I heard that they did quite a lot of work to keep you alive."

"Yeah."

Carl smiled at the musician comfortingly. "I promise I'll make it a good one. Trust me on this, Roger. I want to see you and The Well Hungarians get some recognition, and this is the way to go."

Roger lifted his eyes to meet Carl's, and he stared at the man for a long moment before finally nodding. "Okay."

"Great!" Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, dropping it onto the table in front of Mimi. "One of you can call me tomorrow, and I'll get the details." Again, he squeezed Roger's shoulder. "Don't worry about this, okay? I think you'll like it." He offered a large hand, and Roger shook it awkwardly in his left. "It was good seeing you again. I'm truly glad that you're okay."

"Thank you," Roger said with a smile. "It was nice seeing you, as well."

"We'll talk later," Carl said, giving them all a goodbye wave and disappearing back into the crowded club.

Mark reached for the business card and slid it into his pocket, watching as Roger turned his head back towards the stage. He looked worn out, but he grinned as Jeff bent over his guitar and whipped out a solo. He whooped with the rest of the crowd, eyes sparkling as he watched the performance.

Mark laughed at his friend's glowing features. He seemed so much like his normal self in that moment that Mark had to remind himself that he wasn't completely healthy. He felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. Maybe the music couldn't heal Roger's ailing body, but it definitely helped his disheartened spirit, and they couldn't ask for much more.


	21. Chapter 21

**Here you go! Enjoy )**

**Chapter 21**

May 8, 1992

"Roger, holy shit, slow down!"

Mark was practically jogging as he followed his friend into the building and began ascending the stairs, and Roger finally relaxed into a more manageable pace. He didn't respond, but he was smirking as he glanced backwards, and his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

Mark let out a deep breath, huffing slightly from the rigorous walk. "I honestly didn't know you could move that fast," he half-panted, digging through the pockets of his clothes for the keys to the loft. It wasn't until they got to their floor that he actually located them. As soon as he pulled them out, they were snatched quickly from his hand.

"I got it," Roger said eagerly as he grabbed them, picking up his pace again as he approached the door.

"Why don't you use your own?" Mark grumbled.

"Forgot them."

The metal door unlocked with a click and Roger slid it open, quickly tossing the keys over his shoulder to Mark and heading straight for his bedroom. He reappeared a moment later, gently holding his red Fender. There was a massive grin on his face as he carefully bent down and plugged it into the amp by the couch, then sank into the cushions and pulled it into his lap.

Mark smiled. Roger had been waiting for this day for over a month. "What do you want me to do with this?" he asked, holding up the navy blue sling. They'd just gotten back from another check-up, and the doctor had been satisfied with the healing of the fracture and the wound. He'd finally given Roger the all-clear to begin moving his shoulder around, at least in light motion, to help loosen up the muscles and start to re-build some of his strength. The musician had been almost giddy with the news. His arm would finally be free to play his guitar, though Mark knew the injury was sore and stiff. He'd noticed that even without the sling, Roger had kept his shoulder fairly still on the way back, electing to let his arm rest protectively at his side rather than swing with the movement of his left.

Roger glared at the piece of fabric in Mark's hand. "Burn it," he growled, and carefully lifted his right arm over the body of the guitar. The Fender was small and thin compared to the acoustic, so he was able to do it without hurting himself, and he smiled in content as he began picking out a quiet melody, the fingers of his left hand flicking expertly over the strings. His shoulder moved slightly with the strumming motion of his arm, but it didn't seem to bother him too badly. Mark shook his head, letting out a soft laugh at how fast Roger became lost in the music.

He walked over to his friend's bedroom and threw the sling onto his unmade bed. The doctor told them to keep handy, just in case, but Mark knew that Roger would never use it again. Besides, he really was getting better; his dizziness hadn't been an issue in two weeks, and it had been a while since he'd needed a nap to get him through the day. His energy had finally returned, and the doctor said that his blood should be completely replenished, which meant that he was cleared to return to his normal activities and exercise as long as he didn't overwork his shoulder. The only thing left to deal with was the stiffness at the site of the injury, which was supposed to begin disappearing. If not, they could consider physical therapy—an idea that didn't particularly thrill Roger.

As he was turning to leave the room, he caught a glimpse of a newspaper sitting on the nightstand. Without a second glance, he knew that it was the one containing the second article that Carl had written a couple weeks ago. Mark remembered laughing at the nervous look on Roger's face when they told him the piece had been published, but Carl had truly done a good job. The article explained the accident and the way that Roger stepped in to help, telling how he wound up in the hospital and out of commission for a few weeks' worth of shows, but that he was eager to get back to performing. Not only that, but Carl made sure to mention how much business The Well Hungarians brought to the clubs and the bars at which they played. The piece seemed to make an impact, and apparently the promise of good business was too sweet to pass up. Jeff, Jason, and Cam stopped by with letters or phone numbers from managers around the city, many of whom offered a slot for a gig and free drinks when Roger was ready to return to work.

"Hey, Mark, grab my other guitar and come out here!"

He heard his friend's voice from the living room, and he caught sight of the acoustic instrument leaning against the wall. Gathering it up carefully, he walked out sat across from Roger, a common position in the last month. Though the musician hadn't been able to play, he could still use his left hand to form the chords, and Mark would watch and copy. He'd become even more familiar with the ones Roger had started him with, as well as a couple more he'd learned along the way, and the minor chords that went with them. After a month of playing, he'd developed nice calluses on the tips of his fingers that allowed him to play for longer periods of time.

"Want to learn a barre chord?"

Mark shrugged. "What's that?"

"They're a little bit advanced, but I think you're ready to start working on them." Roger covered the bottom five strings with his pointer finger, easily pressing each of them against the wood of the neck, and his middle, ring, and pinky fingers habitually fell into a common position on the strings. "This is B minor. It takes a while to get the sound right, but you should work on it. Things get way more fun when you can do barres."

Mark copied the positioning to the best of his ability, but Roger wasn't lying; it was difficult. He did his best to make the strings ring out clearly, but it wasn't a comfortable position for his hand, which began to cramp almost immediately. He shook it out and tried again. He was accustomed now to the constant repetition that came with learning the instrument.

After about an hour of echoing the chords Roger played, Mark put the guitar down and let out a happy sigh, smiling as he leaned back in the chair. Roger glanced up.

"What?" he asked.

Mark shook his head and shrugged. "Nothing. Just glad that things are getting back to normal, that's all."

Roger nodded. "Me too." He set his guitar down as well, balancing it carefully against the couch. He slowly raised his right arm and gently rolled the shoulder joint, causing it to pull on the still-tender muscles in his chest. "I'm done with this sitting around shit," he added, and Mark could hear the bitterness in his voice.

It warmed his heart to hear those words. Roger had become so passionate about making the most out of life. He'd become like the old Roger in the years since he met Mimi and adopted her motto—no day but today.

"I don't blame you," Mark said. "You know, you should probably call Erin. Let her know how you're doing." The check-up today was really the beginning of the end of Roger's recovery, and Mark figured she'd want to know that he was in the final stages of the whole ordeal.

"Why don't you call her for me?" he suggested, his tone innocent, but Mark knew exactly what he was up to.

"Don't you think she'll find it weird that I'm always the one who calls?"

"No," Roger shrugged. "She probably likes it, Mark. She told you she's lonely. She obviously doesn't have many people in her life."

"Just because she's lonely doesn't mean she's looking to date." He let out a small sigh, staring at the partially rotting ceiling. "Besides, even if she was, she'd regret it. She'd probably turn lesbian by the time I was through with her."

Roger scoffed. "Come on, that happened _one_ time." He shook his head. "And I don't think it's fair to judge the female race based on Maureen."

Mark chuckled, recognizing the truth in that statement. "Maybe."

Roger stood up and stretched a bit. "But if you're not going to call her, then I guess I will."

Mark watched him walk over to the phone and pick it up, swiftly dialing the digits scribbled on the scrap of paper on the counter. He waited for a moment while it rang. She must have picked up because he suddenly said, "Erin? Hey, it's Roger." He smiled at her greeting on the other end. "I'm great. How's your week been?" He nodded a bit as he listened to her words, and then he laughed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Sounds like you're glad it's Friday." He snickered at her response.

Mark listened as they chatted and he caught her up on his recovery, until finally, Roger said, "Hey, I think Mark wants to ask you something, hang on a second."

_What?_ Mark's eyes widened as he looked at his friend with panic and shook his head. He didn't have anything to say to her.

"Come on," Roger encouraged quietly, his hand tightly covering the speaker so that she couldn't hear. "Talk to her. You can't leave her hanging."

Mark glared, but he finally stood up and made his way across the loft. He shot Roger a nasty glance as he snatched the phone out of his hand, angry at the sneaky move. He had no idea what to talk about with her. It had been easier before, because he'd had a purpose—to tell her how Roger was. But now, he had to make conversation on his own.

Roger smirked guiltily and handed the phone over. "Now's your chance," he whispered before grabbing his guitar and disappearing inside his bedroom.

With a frustrated huff of breath, Mark put the phone up to his ear. "Hey, Erin," he greeted cheerfully. "What's going on?"

"Hey, Mark!" Her voice was warm and polite, and it made him smile. "Not much. I was just telling Roger that it's been a long week, you know?"

"Yeah, I know that feeling," he agreed. "So, Roger told you the good news?" He'd been listening to their entire conversation so he already knew the answer to that question, but it was the first topic that came to his mind.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "He's out of the sling! That's great, I'm so glad he's almost better."

"Me too," Mark said. "He's probably going to be inseparable from his guitar for the next three weeks, though."

Erin laughed. "Well, I guess you can't blame him. By the way, I meant to call you and thank you for taking me to see his band last month. It was fun to actually get out for a night."

Mark grinned broadly to himself. "I'm glad you came," he found himself saying. "You know, he should be able to perform full shows in about a week." Shrugging, he added, "You should come with us next time we go watch. They'll be able to play more of their songs when Rog is there."

"Oh, I'd love to! You'll have to let me know the next time he plays, and I'll be there for sure." She laughed. "I don't know if I told you, but I really like your friends, Mark. You all seem like you have such a good time together."

He smiled. "We do. We just…" He paused for a minute. Erin didn't know about the AIDS that infected half of their group. She hadn't really been in the center of things when Roger had been lying on the ground in the alley, and she probably hadn't heard their comments about the blood. But that dreaded disease was part of the reason why they were so close, and why they spent so much time together. They needed to make the most of it, because nobody was certain when things would change. "We've been through a lot of shit together," Mark explained. "They mean a lot to me."

"I understand," Erin said honestly. "That's great, Mark. Seriously. You're lucky to have so many people in your life that care about you."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I know." He frowned a little bit. "What about you? You must have people around that you spend time with." Randomly, he was struck by the fact that he was having a truly meaningful conversation with Erin, and his heart thumped a little faster.

She huffed out a little laugh. "No, not really," she revealed, and her tone became somewhat sad. "I'm still pretty new here, and it's not exactly easy for me to get to know people." It was strange, hearing her say these things. She'd never really talked about herself much when she came around.

"What do you mean?" Mark asked curiously. "You seem like the type to have a lot of friends." He'd been impressed with the way she seemed to fit in with them, and her cheerful attitude made her easy to talk to.

"Well, thanks," she snickered. "I mean, I have friends back home, but they're just…" She paused briefly. "I feel like we started growing apart, and I began wanting different things out of life than they did, you know?" She sighed. "The reason I moved here in the first place is because I just felt trapped at home. I wanted to get away, and learn to do things for myself."

Mark nodded, laughing at the familiarity of her response. No wonder he liked her so much. She was one of them. "I know exactly what you mean," he said. "Roger and I felt the same way when we left. We wanted to find our 'calling', I guess." He laughed at how simple it had sounded back then.

"And have you found it?"

Mark thought about that for a moment. Had they? Had they really done what they set out to do eight years ago? He sure wasn't living the life he'd expected. But it seemed right, somehow. Not the half-of-his-friends-having-AIDS part, but sharing a drafty loft with his childhood best friend, filming whenever and whatever he wanted, and being surrounded by people he cared about… that was a part of him, and it was something that he wouldn't trade. "Yeah, I think we're getting there."

"Good," she said. "If you know the secret, don't be afraid to share," she added wryly, and Mark laughed.

"No secret. Things just kind of fall into place, I guess."

She sighed. "I hope that's the case. I just… I honestly have no idea where I'm headed right now. I guess I'm waiting for something to pop out at me and scream, 'Here! This is where you're supposed to be!'" She laughed to herself. "I'm sorry, Mark, I don't mean to be whining to you. You don't want to hear this."

"No!" he said quickly. "I don't mind at all."

"Are you sure? Roger said you wanted to ask me something, and I haven't really let you. Was there something you needed?"

"Oh, ummm…" Mark stuttered a bit. He'd hoped she'd forgotten about that and just assumed that he'd wanted to say hi. He took a deep breath, and with sudden resolve, he said, "I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me tomorrow night. Uh, you know, just the two of us."

There was a brief silence on the other end, and Mark's heart dropped. That was such a stupid idea—of course she didn't want to. He was going to _kill_ Roger for setting him up like this.

"Really?" She laughed. "I'd love to!"

Mark's eyes widened, and a smile grew on his face. "You would? Seriously?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to Roger's room open, and his friend popped his head out. He grinned and gave Mark a thumbs-up before disappearing again, and Mark rolled his eyes. Had Roger really been listening to his whole conversation?

She laughed again. "Of course. That sounds nice, Mark."

He let out a relieved breath. "Great," he said. "So, ummm, how about we head downtown? I mean, I don't have a car, so we'll have to walk. I'm sorry…" God, how embarrassing was that? Their first date, and he was going to make her walk to dinner.

"I don't mind at all," she responded cheerfully. "I'd much rather walk."

He smiled. "Perfect. How about I come by around seven and we'll go from your place?"

"Sounds great. Thank you," she said. "I'm really glad you asked."

"I'm really glad you said yes," he told her honestly, and she chuckled.

"Why wouldn't I? I feel pretty damn lucky right now."

"I think I'm the lucky one," he countered. "So tomorrow at seven?"

"Tomorrow at seven."

Mark beamed to himself. "Great. See you then."

"Bye!"

He hung up the phone slowly, not quite believing that he'd successfully gotten a date with her. His heart was thumping in his chest as the excitement built.

Roger again appeared from his room, and this time he approached Mark. "What a stud," he joked with a grin.

"You're an asshole for pulling that shit," Mark responded, thinking back to the panic he'd felt when Roger had suddenly put him on the phone with her. And then he smiled. "Thanks."

Roger shrugged. "Don't thank me. That was all you."

He opened his mouth to respond when loud voices in the hall stopped him, and the loft door slid open to reveal Mimi leading Collins, Maureen, and Joanne.

"Hey!" Mimi greeted, throwing her purse and coat on a chair. The others followed her inside and began taking off their own jackets. "Look who I found on my way home from work," she explained, motioning to the rest of them. "A couple of stragglers."

"Hey, Rog, look at you!" Maureen suddenly exclaimed, noticing his free arm. "You got cleared?"

Roger nodded with a small smile.

"That's great, Babe!" Mimi added, walking over to give him a kiss. "You must be thrilled."

He nodded again. "Yeah, I am."

"So what have you guys been up to then?" Collins asked curiously, planting himself on the couch. Maureen and Joanne followed his lead.

Roger broke into a knowing smile. "Mark's got a—" That was as far as he got before Mark put one hand on the back of his head and slapped the other over his mouth, effectively muffling his words. He'd known that was coming, and he'd been prepared for it. He ignored the questioning looks that the guests shot them.

"Mark's got a what?" Mimi asked with a raised eyebrow, suspiciously observing him practically gagging her boyfriend.

"Nothing," Mark responded quickly.

Roger attempted to slip away, but Mark wasn't having it. He kept his hand clapped tightly against his roommate's lips, hoping that Roger would lose interest and just let it go. He didn't want to deal with the teasing he knew he was going to get, especially from Maureen. Not yet, anyway.

Suddenly, something wet ran across his palm.

"Ewww!" he exclaimed, reflexively pulling his hand back and wiping it against his jeans. "You licked me!"

Roger smirked. "You liked it," he joked. Taking a step out of reach, he revealed, "Mark's got a date!"

"What?!" Maureen's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "No way!"

"With Erin," Roger added, winking. Mark could tell that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Ha, we knew you liked her!" Collins grinned, standing up and walking over to him. He slapped a large hand onto his shoulder. "Way to go. I knew you had it in you."

"Mark!" Mimi exclaimed with a smile. "That's great! Good for you."

"Awww," Maureen cooed. "Our little boy's growing up," she teased, pretending to wipe away a tear. Joanne smacked her shoulder in a 'quit-it' gesture.

"Shut up, Maureen," he grumbled good-naturedly. He wasn't really upset. He'd expected the jokes to be much worse.

"So when are you taking her out?" Joanne questioned.

"Tomorrow night."

"Well then, I think tonight calls for a celebration. You've got a date, Roger's really getting better… it sounds like it's time to go drinking!" Collins announced with a bright smile.

There were small cheers of agreement from the others, but Mark shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said warily.

"Oh, come on," Collins encouraged, giving him a semi-annoyed look. "Roger's been off the painkillers for over a week. He'll be fine."

Mark scoffed. "I'm not worried about Roger, I'm worried about me! You know I don't handle alcohol well," he reminded. That was just a fact of life. He could handle a couple beers, but excessive drinking was not something that ever turned out well for him.

"Mark, come on, I won't let you do anything stupid," Roger assured him, a serious expression on his face.

Mark stared at his best friend and snorted out a disbelieving laugh. "You? Are you kidding? You're the one who _makes _me do stupid things." That was true. When Roger was drunk, he was full of strange suggestions, and for some reason, Mark always went along with them.

There were small chuckles of laughter from the group, but Roger's brow furrowed, obviously displeased at the remark. "Not '_make_' you," he corrected, putting up a finger. "Encourage. I _encourage _you to do these things." He shrugged slightly. "And in my defense, they seem like great ideas at the time."

"When you're hammered," Maureen clarified with a grin, and Roger smirked guiltily.

"Whatever. Come on, Mark," he pleaded. "Let's go."

He stared at his friend. He understood that Roger was still feeling eager to get away from the loft as much as possible, and he hadn't been allowed alcohol in over a month, so this would be fun for him. Finally, he rolled his eyes. "Fine. But if I wind up doing a strip tease at another bar, our friendship is over."

"Oh, God," Maureen chuckled at the memory. "That wasn't a pretty sight."

Roger's eyes widened, and he snorted out a laugh. "Oh yeah!" he said through his snickering. "I'd forgotten about that one."

Mark nodded, a glare on his face. "Yeah, of course you forgot. You suggested it when you were drunker than hell."

Roger pursed his lips, a thoughtful frown on his face. "No, actually, I think I just blocked it out," he explained, and Mark flipped him off.

Mimi laughed at their interaction. "Okay, come on. We'll keep you in line," she promised, looking at him reassuringly. "_Both_ of you," she added, turning to Roger as well. He raised an eyebrow, an innocent look on his face.

"Okay, thank you," Mark said, hoping that she'd stick to her word. He didn't want to hear another story about some embarrassing feat he'd accomplished.

Collins clapped his hands together loudly. "Alright, let's go!"

Mark glanced at his watch. "It's only 6:30," he reminded. "We're eating dinner first."

The professor shrugged. "What's for dinner?"

"Uh, well I think we have some boxes of lasagna in the freezer," Mark suggested. They'd gone through most of the food his mom had prepared for them already, but he thought there were a few left over.

"Sounds good. I'm hungry," Maureen chimed in, and the others nodded.

"I'll get it," Mimi offered, walking towards the kitchen.

Mark let out a sigh, glancing sideways at Roger and giving him a glare. His friend caught him staring. "What?" he asked in confusion.

"If you make me look like an idiot tonight, I'm going to be pissed," he threatened, only half-joking.

Roger laughed and threw his arm over Mark's shoulders. "Stop worrying," he said. "You'll be fine." He smirked mischievously, and his eyes glinted. "But, uh… maybe leave your camera here tonight, so there's no risk of documentation. Just in case."

Mark groaned. _Shit._


	22. Chapter 22

**Really quick, I was asked a question about the title of this story from Jamie (thanks so much for the review, by the way!), and I want to take a second to answer it as best I can. Honestly, the title was kind of last minute, and I'd actually planned on changing it at some point but never got around to it. Anyway, it's meant to refer to all of the promises between both Mark and Roger, though there are some that are more important in this story than others. I try to write what I think is fundamental to their overall relationship, but there are a few that are definitely more relevant. Hopefully the entire thing will make more sense once I get this story done!**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 22**

May 9, 1992

_I'm dying_, Mark thought to himself. _I am actually dying. This is the end._

He moved his head only slightly, regretting it instantly when his stomach churned and lurched, threatening to reveal its contents for the world to see. Opening his eyes and groaning loudly, he mourned how completely miserable he felt in his current state and was afraid to move for fear of spewing everything onto his pillow.

And then he noticed he didn't have a pillow. Because he wasn't in his bed. He was on the…

"Table? What d' hell?" he mumbled, carefully raising his head and swallowing hard at the sudden nausea. As his tilting vision stabilized, he was able to focus on the cool, silver metal beneath his body. Why was he on the table again?

He squinted in confusion, slowly rolling onto his back and clamping his mouth shut in hopes of keeping everything inside. Finally taking the time to use his senses, he realized that he could hear voices and the soft clatter of what sounded like someone using pots and pans. He shifted his head sideways and attempted to clearly focus on the two shapes moving around in the kitchen. He recognized the small, lithe form of Mimi, and Joanne's equally tiny body next to her.

Mark very, very carefully pushed himself into an upright position, his head protesting vehemently at his decision as he swung his legs over the side of the table. He shut his eyes and raised a fist to his mouth, pressing it against his pursed lips and hoping desperately for his stomach to stay put. His head was spinning uncomfortably at the movement, and the dizziness was disorienting. Briefly, he wondered whether this was how Roger had been feeling constantly during his recovery. If so, the guy deserved a fucking medal for getting through it.

His movements must have alerted the girls to his consciousness. They turned around and smirked in amusement.

"How you feeling, Markie?" Mimi asked cheekily while her eyes shined with mirth. She kept her voice low. Joanne snickered quietly and stared at him as she reached around Mimi for the eggs.

He didn't answer, partly because the question was too sarcastic to warrant a response, but mostly because he wasn't confident that he could handle opening his mouth at the moment. Instead, he grunted from somewhere deep in his throat, not completely sure what the noise meant but feeling like he should at least show that he was capable of making it.

Swallowing once more, he put his hand into his lap and took a moment to observe the loft. His groggy mind was having trouble processing information, and he looked around once or twice before really taking anything in.

His eyes landed on Maureen, who was spread out smack in the middle of the hardwood floor, the side of her face pressed roughly into the scratched surface and her tangled hair in an auburn mop around her head. She seemed to be slowly waking up as well, and she moaned a bit as she shifted around on the cold wood.

Mark's gaze slid over to Collins, and his eyebrows rose at the big man's strange position. He was lying almost completely on the floor, but his right leg was slung up onto a chair and hooked around the broken armrest. When he focused on the professor's face, he realized that Collins was also conscious and squinting up at the ceiling, seemingly in a state of intense confusion. Mark wondered if the man was having as much trouble remembering last night's events as he was.

Finally, his eyes locked on Roger, whose current position threw him the most. He was lying on the couch… sort of. He wasn't actually lying on the _couch _couch. He was precariously balanced face-down on the thin, unstable backrest, his long body stretched over the entire length with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms hanging off each side. Mark wondered how that could possibly be remotely comfortable enough to fall asleep, but Roger's ability to drift off wherever he wanted had apparently allowed him to manage it.

Shaking his head slowly, he resolved himself to avoid questioning how they'd all ended up in their respective locations. Some things were better left unknown, especially if everyone had been as drunk as Mark was imagining.

Making the brave decision to stand up, he slid off the table with caution and placed his feet on the chilly floor. He braced himself with an arm as he straightened up carefully in an effort to avoid the nausea, but before he'd even consciously made the choice, he was sprinting to the bathroom and stumbling to a stop in front of the toilet, finally allowing his stomach to empty.

With a cringe of disgust, he spit a few times and flushed. He splashed some water from the sink onto his face and rinsed his mouth with a small amount of mouthwash from the cabinet, swishing it around vigorously until he felt clean. Throwing up was never a pleasant experience, but his stomach did feel somewhat less irritated.

Re-entering the living room, he was met with a livelier sight than when he'd left. Collins and Maureen were actually standing, though both seemed a bit unsteady, and talking quietly with Mimi and Joanne.

"How long have you guys been up?" Collins croaked out, his face screwed up tightly against the light shining in through the windows. He obviously wasn't feeling fantastic either, though Mark had seen him look much worse.

"Almost an hour," Joanne responded. "We thought you all could use a little more sleep," she explained with a smile.

Mark frowned. Why weren't Mimi and Joanne sharing in their alcohol-induced hell this morning? Had they not participated in the festivities? He tried to think back to the previous night, but it was just bits and pieces of memories and a jumble of scattered conversations that he was too lazy (and much too hung over) to put together.

Collins accepted her answer with a small nod. He let out a breathy sigh and glanced around the loft, his dark eyes settling on Roger's still-sleeping form. The man's body was perched perfectly on the furniture, though probably not incredibly safe in its current position. Collins pursed his lips. "He been like that all night?" he questioned curiously.

Mimi nodded and chuckled a little bit. "I think so."

The professor raised an eyebrow just as Roger happened to shift slightly, managing to keep his balance. "Huh. Impressive."

Maureen had moved herself to sit at a chair at the table and Mark and Collins joined her. He folded himself into a seat and dropped his head into his arms, the smell of whatever was cooking causing his stomach to turn again.

He felt a gentle hand tap him on the shoulder, and he looked up through squinted eyes. Joanne's kind face and dark curly locks swam into focus.

"Tylenol all around," she offered, holding out a small cupped hand with six of the tiny pills. Mark readily took two, leaving the others for Collins and Maureen, and popped them into his mouth. He gratefully took the water Joanne handed him and washed them down.

"Thanks." His voice was still heavy with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Just after ten."

He nodded. That wasn't too bad. At least they hadn't slept the entire morning away. Well, Roger might, but he'd do that even when he wasn't hung over, unless someone intentionally woke—

A sharp squeak of surprise interrupted his thoughts, and he turned around just fast enough to see his best friend's flailing form disappear ungracefully behind the couch. There was a loud _thump_, and they each stared in his direction, amused smiles playing on their faces at his abrupt wake-up call.

"Oww, fuck," came his muffled voice, and Mark was worried for a few brief seconds until Roger's ruffled blonde hair popped up, his eyes half-closed against the light filtering into the room. He glanced around the loft in confusion for a moment until his gaze settled on them clustered around the table. He smiled innocently in an attempt to play it off. "Mornin'."

Mark snorted in laughter and turned back around to find that someone had placed a cup of coffee in front of him. He looked up to meet Mimi's warm eyes and gave her an appreciative smile.

Roger managed to make his way towards the table and collapse into the remaining chair, and he let out a sigh that was somewhat moan-like before grabbing his aching head gently between his hands. His right shoulder appeared to be more than a little stiff and didn't move as freely as his left. Joanne shook out two more Tylenol and handed them over, and he thanked her before dry-swallowing them.

It was only a few minutes until plastic plates covered with eggs appeared in the center of the table. Mark's nose twitched a bit at the smell, and he couldn't tell if his stomach was just gurgling because it was upset or if it was actually hungry. He apparently wasn't the only one. The others hadn't made any motion to eat either. They merely stared apprehensively at the food, as if half-expecting it to explode right there in front of them.

Mimi glanced at each of them expectantly. "Look, your stomachs need something in them," she said with exasperation. "You'll feel better afterwards." There was a round of cringes and disagreeing head shakes, but Mimi was adamant. She slid plates around and handed out forks. "Eat."

Mark swallowed hard against the recurring nausea and speared a small clump of eggs onto his silverware before raising it to his mouth and chewing slowly. He noticed that Collins and Maureen had taken tiny, careful bites of their own food, but Roger was just staring, his hand clasped around a cup of water that had appeared in front of him.

"C'mon, Rog. Eat," Mimi repeated.

He shook his head, staring at the plate in mild disgust. "Unless you want to see those eggs become more scrambled than they already are, you gotta give me a couple minutes."

Mark smirked. It was satisfying to know that he wasn't the only one with a queasy stomach.

Collins grinned. "It was a good night, though, right?" he asked enthusiastically. His eyes were crinkled at the corners due to the broad smile stretching across his face.

Mark pursed his lips and frowned. "I don't really remember," he responded honestly. "I think I had a good time…"

Maureen laughed. "I'm sure you did, Mark. And so did I, even without these two," she added, jerking a thumb at the other women.

Joanne wrapped her arm around Maureen's neck and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "We had to make sure you all made it through the night safely."

"And stop Roger from convincing Mark to make a fool of himself," Mimi chimed in. She shrugged and gave Joanne a nervous smile. "One out of two isn't bad, right?"

Mark froze with dread. "One out of two?"

The Latina looked at him somewhat guiltily. "Yeah." She nodded her head slowly and bit her lip. "Okay, the good news is that you all survived," she told him reassuringly, and then she paused briefly. "The bad news is that there may have been like, two seconds that you and Roger got away from me…"

The musician had raised a curious eyebrow, his forehead creasing in thought. He was obviously having trouble remembering the instance to which Mimi was referring.

Mark glared at Mimi, and then Roger, and then Mimi again. "What happened?" he growled, not really sure that he wanted to know the answer. In fact, he was positive that he'd be much happier if he remained oblivious, but he wasn't the type of person to let it go.

"Nothing really…" Mimi mumbled quietly. "You just did karaoke, that's all."

Mark sighed in relief. That was it? That wasn't bad at all. He had a good singing voice, so he wasn't overly embarrassed— until Mimi finished her explanation.

"And you may have been naked."

He choked a little bit on his food. "What?! No!" His face was flushing red as he shook his head furiously, and he could see Roger smirking to himself, finally beginning to pick at the plate of eggs. Collins and Maureen had covered their mouths with their hands in an attempt to stifle laughter. "You're lying," Mark accused weakly, which soon became pleading. "Please tell me you're lying."

Mimi stared at him for a moment before breaking out into a grin. "Okay, you got me," she admitted with a chuckle, shrugging and snaking her arms over Roger's shoulders as she stepped up behind his chair. "You were thinking about it, though."

Mark shook his head. He did have a faint memory of making his way to the stage while in the process of removing his shirt before somebody stopped him. "Let me guess. He dared me?" He pointed a finger at Roger.

"Okay, not fair," the musician chimed in. "It's not always my fault, Mark," he defended. "Sometimes you do things just because you feel like it."

Mimi and Joanne chuckled. "Actually, Baby," Mimi said gently, "that one _was_ your idea."

Mark nodded in satisfaction, while Roger frowned and then shrugged. "Whatever," he mumbled. "Not my fault that he's easily persuaded."

Mark rolled his eyes.

"Well, no harm, no foul, right?" Joanne concluded, and Mark grunted in reluctant agreement. His attention was drawn by Collins, who nudged his arm with an elbow, apparently ready to change the subject.

"Hey, I meant to ask you, where are you taking Erin for dinner tonight?"

At the mention of his date, Mark's stomach flip-flopped. He was nervous and excited at the same time, and he desperately hoped that his nausea would settle down by then, or he was in for a rough night.

"I don't actually know yet," he admitted quietly. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about it, but he hadn't come to a conclusion. He'd been waiting to talk to Roger and see what he thought. His friend was quite good at coming up with that kind of stuff.

"Well, wherever you go, don't order spaghetti or salad," Maureen advised, looking up from her plate.

Mark frowned. "Why not?"

"Because it's impossible for anyone to look sexy while eating either of them, and you run the risk of getting sauce or dressing on your face," she explained simply. "Save it for when you're more comfortable with her."

"Oh." He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "That was actually kind of helpful, Mo. Thanks."

She smiled. "Can't have little Markie making a fool of himself, can we?"

He ignored her comment and took a small sip of his coffee. It tasted wonderful, and it helped to wash away the remnants of stale alcohol that the mouthwash hadn't cleared up.

"You know what you're going to wear?" Roger asked him curiously, and Mark paused.

"No…"

The musician raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think you should figure that out so you're not panicking an hour before you leave?"

Collins snorted out a laugh and Mimi looked down at her boyfriend in amazement, her eyes wide. "_You_ are telling _Mark_ to plan ahead? Isn't that backwards?"

Roger rolled his eyes slightly, but he smiled. "You don't know how Mark gets before dates," he explained, giving Mark a smirk and addressing him with his next question. "Remember Nanette Himmelfarb in tenth grade?"

"Oh, God," Mark groaned, thinking back to the sheer and utter dread he'd felt before picking her up for the school dance. His mom had recruited Roger to attempt to calm him down, and his friend had been forced to sit in Mark's room and remind him to breathe while he dug through his drawers to find something respectable to wear. He shook his head and cringed. That had not been one of his finer moments. "I don't want to talk about it."

Roger snickered and nodded. "Exactly."

"Ooooh, wear that dark blue shirt with your black pants!" Mimi said suddenly, perking up from where she was still pressed against Roger's back. "That would look nice!"

Maureen shook her head and gave Mimi a disapproving look. "No way, he should wear the red shirt."

"Mmmm," Joanne hummed out, scrunching her nose a bit at Maureen's suggestion. "I don't know… I think something a little more subtle for the first date."

Maureen scoffed. "Are you kidding? Red would be perfect! It'll make him seem more exciting. Look, I'll show you." She stood up from the table suddenly, and Mimi and Joanne both abandoned their positions and followed her readily. Mark nervously watched them stride across the loft directly towards his room.

"Hey, wait!" he called out, reaching out a hand as if to stop them, but he was still too queasy to make a huge effort to get up. He knew they were going to be scrounging through his clothes, but he wouldn't have really been able to do anything about it anyway.

Roger and Collins both laughed as the girls disappeared, and Roger slapped him on the shoulder. "They'll take care of you, Man," he reassured him. "Nothing to worry about."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, they better be careful with my stuff," he grumbled. "I don't want to have to clean up after them."

Collins raised an eyebrow, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You're grumpy this morning," he teased, giving him an amused look, and Mark laughed a little.

"I know," he agreed. "I'm sorry. It's the hangover."

They nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I feel like shit, too," Roger confessed, taking another sip of his water and subconsciously massaging his shoulder with his left hand.

They watched him with concern. "How's it feel?" Mark questioned, not liking the obvious soreness he was seeing. "It's not swollen or anything, is it?" He was worried that Roger had perhaps re-aggravated the injury the previous night and just couldn't remember. He reached out and gently tugged down the collar of his friend's shirt, inspecting the area. It looked okay. The only evidence of the previous trauma was the almost two-inch long scar that stood out against his skin.

"It's fine," the musician said, pulling away. "It'll ease up in a couple minutes."

Mark and Collins nodded, leaving the matter alone, and a sudden voice interrupted their silence. "Hey, Mark, get in here!"

He closed his eyes and groaned, mumbling quietly to his friends, "Do I have to?"

They nodded. "Come on, they're better with fashion than we are," Collins reminded him with a smirk. "They'll make you look good."

Mark's mind immediately flashed to Angel and her constant fashion statements. He smiled to himself. If only she were here, too.

"Did you hear me, Mark?" the loud voice called.

Mark sighed. "They're going to make me try things on for like two hours," he whined, rubbing his head with his hands.

"You'll survive," Collins encouraged.

The voice barked at him for a third time, obnoxiously echoing throughout the loft. "Mark! Come here now!"

Roger huffed in annoyance and put a hand up to his temple before yelling back, "Shit, Maureen, relax! He's coming!" He looked at Mark expectantly. "Please go, or she's never going to shut up."

Mark groaned again and finally stood up, slowly making his way across the loft. He glanced back to the table after a few steps. "Save me if I'm gone too long," he pleaded, and the men nodded.

The last thing Mark saw was their amused grins before he was pulled into his room and swarmed by women.

* * *

Mark anxiously tugged at the sleeves of his shirt as he stood in the middle of the loft that night. The girls had ended up dressing him a deep-red button-up and black pants. They'd dug out an old pair of dress shoes from his closet, and he'd tried them on to find that they were actually quite comfortable, which had surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn them.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts, and he jumped slightly.

Roger laughed. "Sorry," he said. "Looking good. You excited?"

_No_, he wanted to say, but instead he nodded. He felt like such a child. Why was he so tense? It was just a girl. _An incredibly beautiful, sweet, friendly girl…_ His stomach was again feeling queasy, but this time out of nerves rather than sickness.

His nod must not have been very convincing, because Roger raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Mark, _relax_," he said gently, looking him straight in the eye. "You're going to be fine, okay? I promise."

Mark's worries got the better of him, and he stared back at his friend. "How do you know that?" he asked quietly, seeking reassurance. It may have been stupid and immature, but this was his first date since Maureen, and his heart had been effectively shattered after their relationship ended. It still hadn't completely mended, and he didn't know if it could take much more emotional abuse. If anything went wrong tonight, he wasn't sure there'd be any chance of it ever recovering.

Roger laughed quietly, his eyes glinting. "Because I know _you_, Mark," he answered sincerely, keeping his voice low so their conversation remained private. The others were milling about the loft aimlessly. "You're good-looking, you're interesting, and you're likable. What are you worried about?"

Mark sighed and shrugged. "I don't know," he confessed. "What if I'm boring or I say something stupid, or I can't think of anything to say at all? What if she doesn't like the way I act?" God, that sounded ridiculous, but he couldn't help that he was feeling it.

Roger listened carefully, and then gave a little head shake. "Mark, she agreed to go out with you because she enjoys your company. She's seen the person that you are, and she likes it. Treat her like you always have." He shrugged. "She just wants you to be yourself." With a smile, he added, "And since you only know how to be you, there's really nothing to worry about."

Mark chuckled at Roger's logic. "I guess that's true." He really was feeling a bit silly at how nervous he was, but it was nice to hear the encouraging words from his friend. "Thanks."

Roger nodded. "No problem. Are you going to take her to that place I told you about?"

"Yeah," Mark responded. Roger had suggested a respectable restaurant downtown that served a variety of food, and it sounded like a good option.

"Good, you'll like it."

"Hey, Mark, you should probably get going," Mimi said to him as she exited the bathroom. "You don't want to be late."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, you're right." He grabbed his jacket off the couch and pulled it on, adjusting the collar to lie flat.

"You out of here?" Collins questioned from the kitchen, and Maureen and Joanne perked up from their seats at the table to look towards him.

"Yeah."

"Alright, Man, have a good time!" the professor said with a grin. "When are you going to be back tonight? Or _are _you going to be back tonight?" he wondered suggestively, his eyes glinting. Maureen smirked, snorting a little bit at the question.

Mark rolled his eyes. "I'll be back, Collins. I don't know when, but probably late." He started heading towards the door, and he sensed Roger walking behind him.

"See you later, Mark!" Mimi called, and she waved happily.

"Bye, Meems."

He slid the door open and looked behind him once more, his eyes landing on Roger, who was grinning.

"Hey, have fun tonight, Mark," he whispered. "Seriously, just relax and enjoy yourself."

Mark smiled. "I will, Rog. Thanks for everything."

The musician nodded and leaned against the doorframe with a smile. "I'll be up when you get back. You can tell me about it."

"Sounds good," Mark said gratefully. "See you later." He headed for the stairs, turning around when Roger's voice called out again.

"Oh, wait, Mark! Here, I almost forgot." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and removed a small packet, which he tossed to Mark. "Just in case," he said with a teasing smirk and a playful sparkle in his eyes.

Mark caught the object and opened his hands, staring at it blankly for a moment before rolling his eyes at his friend's sense of humor. His mouth twitched, and he tried to keep the smile back. "Really, a condom? You're so funny," he said sarcastically, throwing it back to land at Roger's feet. "I'll see you later," he said, resuming his path for the stairs.

"You're right, what was I thinking? It'd be way too big for you," Roger joked from the doorway, and Mark kept walking, flipping the man off over his shoulder. He heard Roger laugh, and he shook his head as the smile spread across his face. "Later, Mark," Roger's voice called, and the loft door closed loudly.

Mark descended the stairs still grinning, his heart pumping at a more regular pace than before. He thought back to Roger's words in the loft. _She just wants you to be yourself._ He could do that. Roger was right; being himself was one thing that he was really good at. Flawless, even. Nobody could be Mark Cohen better than he could.

He finally reached the bottom floor and walked through the building, heading out the door with an excited spring in his step. After a few steps, he glanced up at the fire escape that he knew belonged to their loft, and he smiled wider when he saw Roger and Mimi standing there. They hadn't seen him as they were currently locked in a kiss, but Mark didn't mind. Maybe if things worked out with Erin, he could eventually be the one kissing a girl on the fire escape...

He chuckled at how far ahead his thoughts were wandering and reigned them back in. He needed to focus on tonight. With an optimistic attitude, he headed quickly down the street, turning the corner and leaving the loft and his friends behind him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

May 10, 1992

Mark entered the dark loft as quietly as he could, sliding the door open slowly and just barely squeezing himself through before gently shutting it behind him. A quick glance around the room revealed Collins passed out on the couch, snoozing quietly and peacefully, and Maureen and Joanne cozied up in a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. Mark was surprised to see all of them had crashed there. He'd expected Maureen and Joanne to have gone home that night, but it looked as though they'd been too tired to leave. A brief peek at Roger and Mimi's closed door told him that they, too, were probably asleep. He was disappointed for half a second. He'd hoped that Roger would be true to his word and still be awake so that Mark could talk to him, but he shook the feeling. After all, it was almost 4:00 in the morning, and it was unreasonable to expect his friend to wait up that long.

He silently stepped across the hardwood floor, removing his jacket as he went and laying it over the back of a chair at the table. Looking down at the clothes he'd worn that night, he smiled broadly. He'd have to thank Maureen in the morning; the red shirt had been a nice touch. Erin had complimented him on the color and praised the way it looked on him, and he'd been hard-pressed not to blush. He'd managed to thank her gracefully and sneak in a few compliments of his own, which truthfully wasn't hard to do. She'd looked absolutely stunning in her simple black dress, and he'd had a hard time tearing his eyes away from her. He grinned again. God, he'd had such a good time.

His heart felt light in his chest as he walked towards his bedroom, and as he got closer, he noticed that his door was closed. He raised a questioning eyebrow, squinting when he saw a small note taped to the wood. Leaning in to read it in the dark, he broke into another smile as the familiar, untidy scrawl came into focus. His eyes were able to decipher the single word.

_Roof._

Immediately turning and going back the way he came, he exited the loft and made his way quickly up the lonely flight of stairs leading to the uppermost portion of the building. Pushing open the heavy door, he stood quietly for a moment and gazed about, his eyes landing on a tall figure leaning against the concrete ledge. He allowed the door to snap closed behind him, and the loud _bang!_ drew the figure's attention. The man turned around suddenly, his shoulders tense, but he relaxed when he caught Mark's eyes.

"Hey," Roger said with a smile.

Mark grinned, walking over to join his friend. "Hey." He pulled up next to him, leaning his own elbows on the cold concrete and looking out towards the city. It was actually fairly still, which wasn't common for New York. Everything and everyone always seemed to be in motion, bustling to get from one place to another- but not tonight. For once, it was steady and calm. "I can't believe you're still up," he admitted.

Roger's smile grew, his eyes sparkling a little bit with the reflection of the city lights. "I told you I would be."

"I know, but you didn't have to. I'm sorry. I didn't know I'd be gone so long."

The musician shrugged, tipping his head back and looking up towards the sky. "Don't worry about it. It's been nice up here. Quiet."

Mark nodded. Their little group of friends was an important part of their lives, and they loved being together. But sometimes, when they were hanging out for days at a time, it felt good to get away and take a few moments to re-charge. Everyone knew that Roger's refuge was the roof.

After a brief comfortable silence, Roger turned to him. "So," he said with a smile and an expectant glance, "are you going to tell me how it went, or am I supposed to guess?"

Mark smirked as his thoughts returned to the wonderful night he'd had. "It was amazing," he responded softly. "_She's_ amazing, Rog." He shook his head and chuckled, still not quite believing his luck. "She's such a kind person, and she was just so fresh and fun, you know? We had a great time, and it wasn't awkward at all. It was actually _easy_," he revealed, puzzled, but then he shrugged it off and laughed. "I don't know why, but I mean, the conversation just flowed, like it was written in a script or something. Like I didn't have to work at all to come up with things to say, because it was just so obvious what should come next." He gave his friend a shy look before spitting out his next words. "We, uh, we decided that we're going to go out again. Really soon."

He could feel Roger staring at him as he spoke, and a smile was slowly creeping its way across the man's face until it broke into a wide grin, his eyes lighting up with genuine joy. He grabbed Mark by the shoulder and pulled him into a celebratory hug, laughing lightly. Mark smiled, touched by the enthusiasm. This is why Roger was his best friend. He could be stubborn and moody, but he had a good heart, and he cared deeply for the feelings of those closest to him. If Mark was happy, Roger would adopt that happiness, too. If Mark was upset, Roger would do his best to bring him out of the funk. And if he couldn't, he'd at least provide a listening ear.

Roger pulled away, clapping Mark once more on the back. "That's awesome, man," he said sincerely. "I'm glad it worked out. You deserve it."

"Thanks."

"So what'd you guys do?" the musician questioned curiously. "You were gone for a long time."

Mark shrugged. "Well, we finished dinner around 10, and after that we just sort of walked through the city and talked," he explained. "We lost track of time, though. I really didn't mean to stay out so late."

Roger laughed. "It's funny how that happens."

Mark nodded, reflecting on the conversations he'd had with Erin and how easy it had been to spend time with her. He felt like he could talk to her forever and never get bored. It had been beyond difficult to say goodbye, and he knew that she'd felt the same way. They'd spent a long time trying to convince themselves and each other that they should separate for the night, but all they really wanted to do was sit together and talk. Why was that? Why were his feelings for her so strong after just one date? It made him incredibly happy, but it also scared him half to death.

"Hey, Rog," he suddenly said, "I want to ask you something, and you have to answer honestly." That wasn't necessary for him to say. He knew he could count on Roger to be honest with him when it came to this kind of stuff.

"Okay."

He looked directly at his friend, hoping to see the answer in his eyes. "Am I crazy for thinking that I might love her?" He paused and swallowed hard, confused by his own feelings. "I mean, I—I know this was only our first date, but I've never felt this way for someone before. Not even Maureen. I just, I feel like something about this is different. Am I crazy?" he asked again, needing a serious answer. He _felt_ crazy for even thinking along those lines. And yet, at the same time, it felt completely right.

Roger looked back at him. There was no judgment in his gaze, only understanding. He shook his head. "No," he responded quietly, smiling a bit. "You're not crazy, Mark. Trust what you feel." He let out a deep breath. "Honestly, I don't think that things like love at first sight are as impossible as people think they are," he added, and Mark could tell that he was speaking from his own experience. There was no question in Mark's mind that Roger had fallen for Mimi as soon as he'd seen her, and just hadn't accepted the fact until later.

Mark nodded, and then he smiled a little bit, too. "Well, I don't know if it was love at first sight," he corrected. "I mean, the first time I really saw her, you were bleeding to death on the ground and I was a little preoccupied," he reminded with a glance at Roger, who raised an eyebrow. Mark smirked. "So thanks for screwing that up for me," he teased gently.

Roger chuckled and gave an apologetic shrug. "My bad."

Mark laughed and turned his head to look back out over the city. "I'll let it slide," he joked, enjoying the playful mood that he was in. It felt good to be this happy. Things felt so perfect.

"So you have to tell me," Roger said, looking at Mark curiously. "Did you kiss her?"

Mark didn't return his gaze, but a smile slowly began spreading its way across his face, and he saw Roger's mouth drop open a little bit out of the corner of his eye.

"You did!" Roger exclaimed almost accusingly, but he was grinning. "You totally kissed her!"

With a laugh, Mark nodded. "Don't sound so surprised!"

"Sorry," the musician chuckled. "I just… Good for you," he finally said. "I'm glad you were that comfortable with her."

"Yeah, me too," Mark responded. "I can't believe how nervous I was, all for nothing. And uh, thanks for your help, by the way. Seriously. I know I was acting stupid before I left," he admitted quietly, "but I appreciate you tolerating me. And everything you said about just being myself, you were right."

"Hmmm?" Roger said, perking up an ear at the last part, apparently not having heard him.

"You were right," Mark repeated louder, raising his voice from the slight mumble it had been.

"I was what?" Roger asked again, and Mark frowned. God, for a musician, Roger was awfully deaf.

"I said, you were right!" he practically yelled. His eyebrows furrowed suspiciously at Roger's mischievous smirk, and he groaned when he realized he'd fallen for the trick.

Roger's expression changed to one of amused satisfaction. "God, I'll never get tired of hearing those words," he said proudly.

"You're an ass," Mark accused, back to his normal tone. With a heavy amount of sarcasm, he asked, "Did you hear me that time? Or should I repeat that, too?"

Still smirking, Roger shook his head. "Nah, that one I heard."

Mark nodded. "Good." He smiled and sighed to himself, listening as Roger did the same and they fell back into silence. He realized that they should probably get to bed if they wanted to function normally in the morning, but he was still feeling his emotional high and wasn't even a little bit tired. "Have you been up here all night?" he asked.

Roger shrugged. "Since about midnight. Everybody went to sleep and I didn't want to wake them, so I came up here."

That wasn't strange. Roger would spend the entire night on the roof if they'd let him. "You should go to bed," he suggested, feeling a little guilty, though also grateful, that Roger had stayed up for him.

Another shrug. "I've had like, four cups of coffee tonight," the man admitted a little reluctantly, "so that's probably not going to happen."

Mark chuckled. "That was a stupid idea," he teased, and Roger nodded.

"I realize that now."

Mark sighed again. "Well, I guess it's not so bad out here," he said, turning around and sitting down so his back was against the stone ledge. He leaned his head back in order to gaze up at the stars, which were just barely visible amidst the lights of the city. "I think I could hang up here for a while."

Roger joined him on the ground. "Me too."

It was sometime in the early morning hours that they both succumbed to exhaustion, and, propped up against the wall and each other, they finally fell asleep.

* * *

"Hey, guys, wake up."

The voice came from far away, and Mark tried to turn his head from the sound. He didn't want to wake up. He was tired, and his side was pressed against something warm and soft. He didn't want to move.

"Wake up."

Mark groaned slightly, annoyed at their persistence, and his own protest was joined by that of someone else. He heard the far-away voice laugh.

"Don't bitch at me. Get your asses up."

He recognized it now. Slowly opening his eyes and blinking at the light, he squinted to see Collins' kind features only a couple feet away. He felt his shoulder jostle as whatever he was leaning against moved, and he turned to see Roger also blinking sleep out of his eyes.

"You guys need to come in," Collins announced. "Mimi was freaking out until we found that note on your door, Mark. We didn't know where you guys were."

Mark straightened up and stretched his shoulders and his back. They were a little stiff from leaning against the cold concrete and collecting dew. He couldn't believe that they'd actually fallen asleep out there. That definitely hadn't been the plan. He looked at Roger again, who was also trying to work out the muscle stiffness. His injury again looked to be bothering him, and he actually winced as he attempted to move his shoulder, which pulled uncomfortably at the damaged muscles in his chest. Hopefully it'd feel better once he warmed it up inside. The night air hadn't been overly cold, but it probably hadn't been the best thing for either of them to be exposed to for as long as they had. Luckily, Roger had been wearing a jacket. Otherwise, Mark would be more concerned about his friend's HIV-infected immune system falling susceptible to sickness.

"Sorry," Roger grunted in response to Collins' words. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

"I know, now come on." He held out a hand for each of them to latch onto, and he pulled them into standing positions. Mark brushed himself off, realizing that he was still in his nice clothes from his date. They made their way inside and began walking down the stairs. "So I take it that you had a good time, Mark?" Collins guessed with a grin.

He smiled. "Yeah. It was great."

"You got back late," he said, sliding open the loft door, and Mark nodded.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry."

Collins snickered. "Don't apologize."

The girls looked up as they entered, raising their eyebrows when they caught sight of their wrinkled clothing. Mimi shook her head disapprovingly. "Mark, your nice clothes are going to be all dirty now! Go take those off." She looked at her boyfriend. "You go change, too, Rog. Put on something warm."

Mark raised an eyebrow at her commanding tone before doing as she ordered. The red shirt and the nice black slacks were thrown haphazardly onto his bed, and he pulled on a pair of jeans and a cozy sweater. With a quick glance at the clock, he realized it was only about nine. No wonder he was still so tired. He and Roger had probably fallen asleep mid-conversation around six or seven that morning, so he'd slept for less than three hours.

He re-entered the common area in the loft and collapsed onto the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes before snapping them open once more. He'd briefly considered crawling into bed, but that would throw off his entire sleep schedule. The best thing to do was ride out the exhaustion and go to sleep early that night. He saw Roger leaning back in his chair at the kitchen table, now in his own dry, clean clothes, and with the same dead-tired look on his own face.

Mimi grabbed a couple of mugs off the counter and filled them with coffee. She held one out to Roger, but he shook his head. "No thanks, Babe. I had enough last night. I should probably hold off."

Mimi frowned. "Well, I'll make you some tea or something then," she responded. "You guys should both drink something hot after being outside all night." She walked over to Mark and handed him a cup, which he accepted gratefully. The warm mug did feel good in his hands.

Roger half-shrugged, keeping his right arm fairly still. "It wasn't that cold," he countered, but Mimi ignored him. She filled a cup of water and handed it to him and then placed an AZT tablet on the table. Roger took it obediently.

"So, Mark," she said with a knowing smile, "you were out late last night." Maureen and Joanne both turned their heads to eavesdrop on the conversation, but Mark didn't mind. He'd have to keep answering the same curious questions if he didn't tell all of them now.

"Yeah, I was. We had a lot of fun," he told them with a smile.

"Oh, good!" Mimi squealed, and Maureen opened her mouth wide, a smile on her own face. Joanne just laughed quietly.

"Are you going out again?" Maureen questioned aggressively, and he nodded. "No way!" she yelled, causing him to cringe. "Nice going, Mark!"

He chuckled at that. "Thanks, Mo. And good call on the red shirt."

She gave a triumphant, "Ha!" and turned to Mimi and Joanne. "I told you!" They both rolled their eyes good-naturedly.

"Good for you, Mark," Joanne said gently. "We all knew you'd be fine."

Mark nodded. "Thanks."

"Hey, Mark," Collins said from across the loft. He had a large textbook in his hands, probably preparing a lesson for class that week. "Did anybody tell you that your sister called last night?"

Mark almost choked on the coffee he was drinking, and Roger turned to look at Collins with a surprised gaze. It seemed as though he hadn't known either. He must not have been at the loft when it happened.

"My sister?" Mark repeated. That was weird. Cindy never called him, and he never called her. It wasn't that they had a bad relationship, because they were actually quite close. But the phone had never been their preferred method of communication. Ever since he'd moved to the East Village, it had been a little game that they played. Every once in a while, she'd send him a picture of her family or her kids in a funny scenario, attaching a little note with a greeting and a caption, and he'd respond with a goofy picture of him and Roger, complete with his own note. They'd continuously try to out-do each other with the pictures, sending only those that were unbelievable or hilarious. He wondered why she'd decided to call this time. "Did she say what she wanted?"

Collins shook his head. "No, she just asked if you were here, and she wanted you to call her."

Mark stared at the man with worry. "Did she sound okay?"

Collins' eyes widened. "Oh, yeah, she was fine!" he said quickly. "Sorry, Man, I didn't mean to scare you." Mark let out a relieved sigh as the professor continued. "She said she just had a question for you, and to call as soon as you could."

Mark nodded, and he stood up. _Might as well do it now_. Approaching the phone, he dug out her number from the little basket on the counter. He never used it, so it wasn't one that he'd bothered to memorize. Dialing quickly, he waited patiently for the phone to ring three times before he heard his sister's voice.

"Hello?"

"Cindy? It's Mark."

"Mark!" she exclaimed happily. "What's going on, little brother?"

He smiled. "Not much. What about you guys? How are the kids doing?" Cindy had three of the cutest kids he'd ever seen- two eight-year-old twin boys and a five-year-old girl.

She chuckled. "Not bad. Ryan and Jake have been all over the place lately," she said. "I don't know what it is, but they're just little devils these days." She spoke fondly, and Mark knew that she wasn't really upset.

"Good for them," he joked. "They're just keeping you on your toes."

She laughed. "Yeah, well, they're reminding me a little too much of you and a certain friend of yours when you were kids," she said, and Mark grinned.

"You know, Mom told me the same thing when I visited a couple months ago."

"That's because it's true!" Cindy exclaimed. "Seriously, they're exactly like you guys. It actually scares me a little bit," she admitted with a laugh. "And Tasha is still in the stage where she loves to go to school," Cindy said, "so she's a little bummed because they're all going to be on break this week. I've never seen someone so upset about staying home," she chuckled.

Mark smirked. Tasha was the most adorable little girl he could imagine. She had fair skin, light hair and light eyes, and chubby little cheeks still round with baby fat. He could tell she was going to look a lot like Cindy when she grew up. The boys were blonde as well, but they had dark eyes like their father, Ted.

"Well, I'm sure she'll forget about it if you get her out of the house for a bit."

Cindy grunted in agreement. "Yeah. Actually, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about," she revealed, perhaps a little nervously. "I was hoping you could do me a huge favor."

Mark pursed his lips, not quite sure what he was getting himself into. "Okaaayyy," he drawled slowly. "What is it?"

"Well," Cindy began, "My boss just told me yesterday that he wants me to go to this convention out of town this week," she said. "I asked him if someone else could do it, but he's kind of a hard ass and he sounded pissed off about it, so I didn't push." Mark smiled when he realized that being a mother apparently hadn't gotten rid of her dirty mouth. "Anyway," she continued, "Ted's mom isn't doing too well, so he flew back to California just a couple of days ago to spend the next week with his parents."

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," Mark said. Hearing news like that was never good.

"Yeah, we're hoping she'll be okay, but it's not looking great," Cindy revealed. "So here's my problem. The kids are supposed to be home all this week, and Ted and I aren't going to be here to take care of them." She let out a deep breath. "I know this is really short notice, and I won't blame you if you say no, but is there any way that they'd be able to spend the week with you?" Mark's eyes widened. He'd had a feeling that's where this was going. The truth was that he'd never actually _met_ Cindy's kids. He'd seen pictures, and he'd seen the boys once when they were very young. They'd been born the year that Mark had moved away, and his parents and sister had brought them to Mark's loft that year so that he could see them and they check out his new home. But really, that had been it. Cindy continued quickly when he didn't respond. "I'd ask Mom and Dad to take them," she added, "but I think they'd have more fun with you, Mark. They've seen these pictures that you send, and they're always asking about their uncle. They want to get to know you."

Mark was speechless for a minute. He hadn't been expecting that. "They _want _to come out here?"

Cindy chuckled. "Yes, Mark, they do. They've been begging me for the past year, and this is the perfect opportunity. I know they'd love to just hang out with you and Roger. But seriously, I know you've got work and stuff, so if you can't take them, we can do it out another time."

"No!" Mark said quickly. "No, I'd like that," he added. "I mean, I usually work during the week until about two, but Roger should be around. Can you just hold on a second? I should check with him." He saw Roger glance up at the sound of his name.

"Sure," Cindy said.

Mark covered the phone with his hand and looked at his roommate nervously. He wasn't sure how thrilled Roger would be with the set-up. "How would you feel about having Cindy's kids stay with us this week? She and Ted are both going to be out of town."

Roger stared at him for a moment. "Oh, uh, yeah," he stuttered. "That's fine."

He could tell that Roger was as surprised as he had been at the turn of events. "You sure?" he asked again. He didn't want to put the man in a position that he wasn't comfortable with. Mark had never really seen his friend with kids, so he had no idea what Roger's feelings towards them were. "You wouldn't care if they hung out here during the day?"

"Yeah, Mark, it's fine."

Mark nodded. "Thanks," he said, before raising the phone back up to his ear. "Cindy? We'll take them for the week."

She let out a relieved sigh. "Thanks, Mark!" she said. "You're a life-saver! I'll get them packed up and in the car in like an hour, and we should be over there sometime this afternoon if that's okay. I need to leave early tomorrow morning, so it'll be easier if they stay with you tonight."

"That's fine," he said. "Not a problem."

"Okay, seriously, Mark, thanks so much. I owe you one, little brother!"

He laughed. "Don't worry about it. So I guess we'll see you in a few hours?"

"Yeah, see you!"

He hung up the phone and leaned against the counter. They were having kids stay with them? Did he really just agree to that? He could feel the eyes of his friends staring at him, apparently just as surprised and lost as he was, and he looked up to meet their gazes. He was suddenly struck by how messy the loft was. There were beer cans and various food wrappers littering the tables, blankets and pillows thrown into piles on the floor, and jackets and miscellaneous other items tossed over every chair in the room. He felt a little bit of panic.

"Okay," he said loudly, "everybody has to help clean," he commanded. "Right now." He strode into the living room, motioning for all of the occupants to stand up. "I'm serious, everybody's in," he said, and they all shrugged and pushed themselves upright. "You," he said, pointing at Roger, "come with me. We're going to the store."

Roger frowned. "Why?"

"Because kids eat and we have no food," he responded, grabbing his jacket. His exhaustion had disappeared, and his focus had shifted to making the loft acceptable for company.

"You should pick up some coloring books or something if you can find them," Joanne suggested. "They'll love them."

Mark nodded. "Good idea." His friends had already begun picking up the garbage scattered around the floor, and he felt relief. They had about four or five hours to get everything ready, so they should be able to make it.

Roger was putting on his own coat, though he struggled with maneuvering his arm into the sleeve. Mark frowned, and he noticed Mimi watching with concern as well. It had been hurting him in the past day or two that he hadn't worn the sling, and it seemed even worse today than the day before. Mark decided to make a point to call the doctor when he got a chance. Hopefully he could suggest something to help.

"Ready," Roger said, succeeding with getting his jacket on. "Let's go."

"Okay." He looked back at the others who were slowly tidying up. "Thanks, guys," he said. "We'll be back in a little bit to help out."

They nodded. "No worries, Mark," Mimi reassured him. "We'll take care of it."

Mark smiled as he and Roger headed towards the loft door. He was excited to meet the kids, but he was also apprehensive. What if they were bored for the entire week? He'd have to think of some activities that they could do to entertain themselves. That wouldn't be too hard, right? Just blocks and crayons and things like that? He let out a deep sigh.

Roger turned to him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I probably should have asked Cindy what to get, though."

"We'll figure it out," Roger reassured him.

"You sure you're cool with this? I know I kind of sprung it on you."

Roger smiled, though he looked somewhat nervous. "It's fine," he said. "I uh, I don't really know how to act around kids, though," he admitted quietly, and Mark nodded. He had the same dilemma.

"I don't either," he agreed, and repeating his friend's words, he said, "We'll figure it out."

Roger nodded. "I guess so. But I'm apologizing now for anything that I do wrong." He spoke insecurely, and his expression was legitimately worried.

Mark laughed. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Besides, it's only a week. We can't screw them up too badly in a week, right?"

Roger snorted and smiled. "We'll find out."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

May 10, 1992

Mark and Roger re-entered the loft about an hour later. They hadn't seriously been grocery shopping in weeks, so they'd spent quite a bit of money on food to stock the bare shelves in the kitchen. Mark had to laugh to himself. It used to be that they didn't buy groceries because they were unemployed and didn't have the income; now, they had the cash, but quite frankly, they were just too lazy to make it to the store.

He carefully set the paper bags down onto the table, letting out a sigh of relief when he no longer had to hold them tightly against his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roger placing his own burdens down. He watched carefully. He'd been sure to take the majority of the bags and give Roger the lighter ones in order to spare his friend's shoulder from being overworked. Despite his intentions, he noticed Roger wince and rotate the joint gently as if to loosen it, and he shook his head. He was definitely going to do something about that.

With a glance around the loft, he admired the almost-tidy look of the place. The random crap that had cluttered the living room was gone, and the various coats and jackets that had previously adorned the furniture were also absent.

"Looks great," he said encouragingly, and four heads turned to face him. Collins was washing dishes while Maureen and Joanne went through the seemingly unending piles of magazines and newspapers that had somehow accumulated, tossing the old, outdated ones aside.

"Yeah, we're getting there," Mimi answered. "We still need to wipe off the counters and sweep the floors. Oh, and the bathroom needs to be cleaned."

Mark's eyes widened. "Roger, that's you," he said quickly. That was one job that he absolutely despised, and yet it seemed like he always ended up with it.

Roger shook his head in a flat-out refusal. "I don't do bathrooms."

He internally groaned. For once, he wished his friend would just play fair and agree to make things easy on him.

"Well, then you can wipe of the counters," Mimi told her boyfriend sternly, pointing toward the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow and then smirked slightly as he turned to follow her orders.

Mark headed to the bathroom with resignation, moping as he was forced to pull hair from the drain in the sink before proceeding to scrub it and the toilet. He replaced the towels and the soap and returned to the main living area just as Mimi was finishing up sweeping. She must have gotten the broom from her apartment downstairs, because he and Roger sure as hell didn't have one. The others had resorted to standing quietly, as if waiting for another task to be assigned to them.

When nothing was suggested, Maureen spoke up. "Are we done?" She turned in a circle, inspecting every corner of the loft, and grinned. "I think we're done!"

Mark gazed around, too. It looked clean. Not even in a 'it'll-do-for-now way,' either. It was legitimately spotless. Cindy was going to be so impressed. "Good work," he said. "Thanks, guys."

"Yeah, yeah, you owe us all a beer," Collins teased.

"We'll see." The mess in the loft was a collaborative effort between him, Roger, and their friends, so he didn't feel overly compelled to reward them for helping to clean up. He was grateful, though, especially to whoever had put the groceries away.

"Is there anything else we should do, Mark?" Joanne questioned, staring at him curiously. "Maureen and I could try to pick up some games for them, if you want."

He smiled at her. "Thanks Jo. That would be great."

She nodded enthusiastically, grabbing Maureen by the arm and dragging her towards the door. Mimi and Collins collapsed onto the couch, obviously exhausted from their cleaning, and Roger reached for his guitar, pulling it to his chest and lowering himself into a chair before strumming a couple chords. Mark took a seat, too, squeezing between the two already on the couch, and letting his eyes wander around the loft again. It was so fucking _clean_! At least, the areas open to the public were. He knew his and Roger's bedrooms still looked like hell, but that was a different matter.

"So, Mark," Collins started slowly, "it's going to be a big responsibility to take care of those kids for a week. You know that, right?"

He nodded nervously. "Yeah, I know."

"Collins, don't scare him," Mimi admonished, and then she smiled and patted Mark on the leg. "You'll be fine. They'll love you."

"Of course they will," the professor agreed. "I'm just saying that it's going to be tough."

"We'll handle it," Roger chimed in from his place across the sitting area. He was playing a song quietly on his acoustic, but obviously listening in on their conversation.

Mark nodded again. Even though Roger was just as clueless as he was when it came to taking care of children, it was a comforting thought to know that he would have the support. He wasn't on his own.

Roger's song faded out and he shifted his guitar a bit, wincing as he tried to lift his arm too high and immediately lowered it again. He glanced up to check if anyone had been watching, and Mark caught his eye.

He sighed. "Alright, Roger. I'm calling Doctor Marshall," he announced, standing up.

Roger shot him a look. "No," he replied quickly, shaking his head. "It's fine."

Mimi gazed at Roger with a worried expression. She, too, must have seen his discomfort. "It's not fine," she countered. "It shouldn't be hurting you this much."

His shoulders tightened defensively. "I've only been moving it for like, two days. They said it'd take a while to feel better."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, but they also said that it shouldn't feel worse."

Roger didn't respond. He merely sat quietly, holding onto the neck of the guitar tightly. It was obvious that he wasn't happy.

"Come on, Rog, what's the worst that could happen?" Collins inquired, leaning forward and clasping his hands in front of him. Surprisingly, Roger actually offered a response, though not loudly.

"They could tell me not to play the guitar again."

Mark nodded in understanding. He'd figured that was the man's main concern. "I wouldn't worry about that too much," he assured. "It's not really the playing that hurts you. It's the movement during the day." That was true. When Roger was actually strumming, his shoulder was generally fine. It was in the mornings and when he was up and moving around that it got worse. Meeting his friend's unconvinced expression, Mark said, "Look, I'm just going to call him and see if there's anything he can suggest to help, okay? If you don't like what he has to say, you don't have to listen to it."

Roger finally gave a small nod. "Fine," he grumbled before returning to his music.

Mark walked over and picked up the phone, dialing a number that he'd written down over a month ago and left on the counter. Dr. Marshall had graciously given it to him in case he had any questions, but he'd never used it. It was the man's home number, and he didn't feel comfortable calling him outside of work. However, it had to be done. Just when he thought he'd get no answer, Dr. Marshall's kind voice came through.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Marshall? This is Mark Cohen."

"Mark!" the doctor greeted with a somewhat surprised tone. "How's it going? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, for the most part," he answered. "I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I have a question for you if you've got a couple minutes." He could see Mimi and Collins listening attentively to him as he spoke, while Roger was studiously ignoring all of them.

"Sure, what's up?" the doctor inquired curiously.

Mark sighed. "Roger's shoulder has been hurting him these last couple days since he hasn't been wearing the sling, and I'm wondering if there's anything you can suggest that'll help the pain."

Doctor Marshall let out a thoughtful 'hmmm' and then cleared his throat. "Is it severe pain, or is it mostly soreness?"

"I think it's mostly soreness, with moments of more severe pain," Mark responded, glancing at Roger again. "But I don't really know. He doesn't say."

"Has he been overworking it in the last day or two?"

Mark shook his head. "No." He hesitated briefly before adding, "I mean, he plays his guitar, but it doesn't seem to hurt him."

Mark listened as it sounded like the man clicked his tongue into the receiver, apparently lost in thought. He eventually spoke. "Well, here's the thing. Roger's wound was practically between a muscle called the pectoralis major, which stretches across the chest, and his shoulder. Unfortunately, that means that he probably managed to damage all of those muscles, and any movement of his shoulder or arm is likely to pull on it. I'd imagine it probably feels very similar to a severely torn muscle."

"So," Mark said, pursing his lips as he attempted to follow, "you think it just needs more time?"

The doctor sighed a little bit. "It's hard to say," he admitted. "I mean, like I said, physical therapy is an option, but that's mostly designed to help strengthen weak muscles, and I don't think that's the biggest issue right now. It sounds as though he needs more time to heal those muscles."

"He doesn't want to do therapy anyway," Mark put in. That was probably for the best. Physical therapy was expensive, and they both knew it'd be tough to pay for it, just like it had been for the hospital. Roger had been mortified when Mark told him that his parents insisted on paying most of the medical bill last month.

"Right," Dr. Marshall agreed. "Well, here's what I'm thinking," he said, businesslike. "I didn't expect the pain to get worse, and the fact that it has leads me to believe that perhaps the muscle was more damaged than we originally thought. There may be some swelling of the tissue and that kind of stuff."

Mark nodded slowly, not quite liking the sound of that. "Okay, so what does that mean?"

"Well," the doctor continued, "I think you should have him ice it as much as he can for the next couple of days to reduce any swelling, and hopefully that'll help. Afterwards, he can put a heating pad on it to loosen it up. I can prescribe some anti-inflammatory pills that should help as well. And during the day, I'd just keep it wrapped in a soft bandage or a brace to give it at least a little support. Treat it like a torn muscle."

"Okay, sounds good."

The doctor let out a breath. "I'm not sure how much good it'll do, but it's worth a try. If it doesn't start feeling better, please feel free to give me another call. Though you should warn him, it's possible that it'll never feel completely normal again."

Mark nodded, already having figured that out for himself. "Yeah, I know. Thanks."

"Anytime," the doctor responded. "Why don't I call those pills into the clinic right now, and you can pick them up within the hour. I'll have one of the guys down there show you a good way to wrap it if that's what you decide to do."

"Thank you," Mark said sincerely. "That'd be great." At least, it would be if he could get Roger to agree to go to the clinic…

"Alright, I'll do that. Talk to you later, Mark."

"Bye."

Mark hung up the phone and re-joined his friends in the living room, reclaiming his seat on the couch between Mimi and Collins. He tried to catch Roger's eye, but the man was avoiding him. He held back a smile. If Roger was going to be a little brat about it, then so was he. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together quietly. Mimi and Collins were looking at him with curious gazes, waiting for him to speak.

"Well, Roger," Mark started seriously, letting out a dramatic sigh. "It looks like they're going to have to amputate."

The musician glanced up, finally paying attention, and Mark could tell that he was trying not to smile at the obvious exaggeration. Instead, he said, "You're not funny."

Mark chuckled softly at the attitude. "Look, he wants us to go down to the clinic and pick up some anti-inflammatory meds. He thinks the muscle is just acting up from the damage and it needs to be iced and wrapped for the next few days."

Roger seemed to be listening carefully, and he eventually pursed his lips. "That's it?" he asked skeptically, as if looking for the catch.

Mark laughed. "That's it. We told you it would be fine. Oh, uh…" His face fell slightly at his next words. "You should know, he did say that it might never feel completely normal again." He spoke gently, watching Roger's face carefully. His friend merely nodded, and Mark gave him an encouraging smile. "Alright, well we can head down there in about 45 minutes. Until then, I'm going to try to catch a nap." His exhaustion was returning now that he had a little bit of down time. He and Roger had stayed up _way _too late the night before. "Somebody get me up?"

They all nodded, and Mark rose from the couch and headed towards his bedroom. He closed the door after he entered and practically collapsed onto his bed, removing his glasses and closing his eyes immediately. He couldn't believe that in less than four hours, he was going to actually meet his niece and nephews for the first time. His stomach turned nervously, and his last thought before sleep claimed him was how he desperately hoped they liked him.

* * *

When there was a knock on the door around two o'clock that afternoon, his heart leaped uncomfortably in his chest. He glanced around the loft, meeting the eyes of his friends who were looking at him expectantly. With a significant amount of apprehension, he slowly approached the door, once again second-guessing his decision to agree to the whole thing. He couldn't take care of kids. Shit, he could barely take care of _Roger_…

With one final calming breath, he slid the loft door open, revealing his sister's smiling face and the small, wiggly bodies of her three children. She grinned widely.

"Little brother!" she exclaimed, opening her arms for a hug, and his own face broke out into a smile as well. "I missed you!"

"Good to see you, Cindy," he said sincerely, pulling her into an embrace and holding her tightly. It had been so long since they'd seen each other in person. She looked even more grown-up now than he remembered. Her features had become more mature, and she looked less like his big sister and more like a mother. She was beautiful. The pictures that he'd seen didn't do her justice.

They broke away from each other and he glanced down at the kids huddled around her legs. He smiled at them, and they stared back with wide eyes, their expressions almost shocked. _Shit, I've already screwed up,_ he thought. He brushed it aside and said, "Come on in." Stepping back, he ushered them into the loft, incredibly thankful that it was presentable to his sister. His friends stood up and made their way over, warm and welcoming smiles on their faces.

"Hey there, Cindy," Roger greeted with a grin, walking towards her and holding his arms open for a hug.

She laughed as he pulled her in, beaming. "Hey, Rog!" she said. "How are you doing?" Her eyes widened in realization and she leaned back, staring at his face. "Oh God, seriously, how are you?" she questioned, looking at him with concern. "Mom told me about your injury. I couldn't believe it." Her face took on a guilty expression. "I'm sorry, I was going to call you guys to check up on you, but things just got so hectic."

Roger shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine, really."

"He's getting there," Mark corrected, and Cindy nodded.

"I'm glad to hear that." She stepped backwards, and looked past Roger's shoulder to the group standing behind him. Mark moved forward quickly.

"Cindy, this is Collins, Mimi, Maureen, and Joanne." He ignored the way her lips twitched in involuntary amusement when he introduced his ex-girlfriend and her current lover.

"It's nice to finally meet all of you," his sister said, giving them all a wave. "I've heard so much about you from Mark's letters."

"Good things, I hope," Mimi joked lightly, and Cindy laughed.

"Of course!" She looked down at her kids, who were quietly standing by her feet. "Hey, guys," she said to them enthusiastically, "I want you to meet your Uncle Mark. You're going to have lots of fun with him this week."

He smiled as she motioned to him, and three pairs of eyes once again focused on his face. He tried not to squirm, but it was difficult. "Hey, guys," he said, kneeling down so he was at their level. He was worried that they weren't going to say a word to him, but before he knew it, two young boys were flying at him, wrapping their arms around his neck and almost tackling him to the ground in a hug.

"Uncle Mark!" one of them exclaimed. "I didn't think we were ever going to meet you!"

He laughed as they squeezed him tightly, and he locked eyes with his sister, who was smiling in relief and happiness. Tasha was standing practically behind her legs, but she'd peeked out when her brothers had rushed him. She was now watching them calculatingly, as if judging whether or not she wanted to be a part of the tussle. He smiled at her once more, and finally she answered with a smile of her own, stepping out and walking towards him. She gently reached out and wrapped her tiny arms around him as well, and he couldn't help but grin. This was _amazing_. He'd just met these kids and he already loved them.

"Uncle Mark, we're going to have so much fun!" one of the boys said. He didn't actually know which one was Ryan and which one was Jake. They looked completely identical to him.

"You bet we are," he responded, glancing up at his friends. They were smiling as they watched him, and he caught Roger's proud gaze. The man gave an encouraging nod, letting him know that he was doing well.

"Alright, boys, let your uncle up," Cindy said, reaching out to pull one of her sons away. "This is Jake," she informed them, ruffling his hair. He frowned a bit and smoothed it back into place, though it didn't have much of an effect. She pointed to the other boy. "And that one still clinging to you is Ryan."

Mark pushed himself back to his feet, dragging Ryan with him. Tasha had quickly returned to her mother's side. She was obviously quite shy.

"Kids, these are Mark's friends," Cindy explained, motioning to the group. "They're going to hang out with you this week, okay?" The boys nodded excitedly, and Tasha observed the group, eyes shifting from face to face. "Do you guys remember seeing pictures of your Uncle Mark and his friend Roger?" she asked, pointing to the musician, who seemed uncomfortable at being singled out. Cindy looked down at the children. "Roger's been your uncle's best friend since he was Tasha's age, and he's almost like another brother to me," she explained. She looked at Roger and smiled. "He lives here too, so I want you to treat him with the same respect that you would your Uncle Mark."

The kids stared at Roger briefly, and the two boys grinned widely before charging at him as well, with cries of, "Uncle Roger!" Roger's eyes widened as they each latched onto a leg tightly, and Mark laughed out loud at his friend's confused look as he uncertainly put a hand on each of their backs. Mark shrugged. At least the boys would be easy to get along with. Tasha, on the other hand, was staring at Roger warily. She'd once again disappeared behind her mom's legs, her blue eyes just barely visible peeking around the side. Roger flashed her a kind smile and she pulled her head back quickly, hiding herself from view. Mark saw his friend's smile falter slightly as a look of hurt passed through his eyes, but he immediately covered it up.

The boys released Roger and stepped back, looking around the loft. Jake, who Mark remembered was wearing the green shirt, exclaimed, "This place is awesome! Can we look around Uncle Mark?"

"Sure, I'll give you guys a tour," he offered, happy that they seemed to like the place.

Cindy shook her head, taking a step towards the door and pulling Tasha with her. "Not so fast, boys. We've got stuff in the car that needs to be brought in."

"Can't we do it later?" Ryan whined, a pout crossing his face.

"No, Sweetie, because I need to leave soon. It's a long drive home."

Mark nodded. He did feel bad that she'd made the drive all the way there, and she was going to turn around and go back within the hour. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to help make things easier on her.

"We'll come help you grab stuff," Collins said, following her towards the door, and the girls were close behind him.

"Thank you. We've got a couple bags, and I brought quite a bit of food for them. I don't want to clean you out over here."

Mark felt a bit of relief. He wasn't sure they'd gotten food that the kids would really like, so he was glad she'd packed some along.

The group of them marched downstairs, working together to empty the car of the kids' luggage, including their pillows and blankets, as well as Tasha's small brown teddy bear, and the multiple bags of food. They carried the haul back into the loft, depositing the luggage on the floor and putting the food on the table to be dealt with later.

Mark turned to his sister, eager to catch up. "So have you seen Mom and Dad lately?"

She shook her head. "No, it's been a while since I've talked to them, actually," she explained, pulling groceries out of the bags. "The last time I called, they'd just gotten back from staying with you guys."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I haven't talked to them much since then, either."

"Mom was thrilled they'd been able to come see you boys," Cindy revealed, glancing up to meet his eyes. "Obviously, the circumstances were awful," she quickly put in, looking at Roger with a sympathetic expression, and then looking around at the group of them. "But she really enjoyed meeting all of you."

"We loved having her," Mimi responded with a smile. "Both of your parents were wonderful. It was nice to know that they were taking care of Roger while we were gone."

"Oh, they loved it," Cindy responded with a smile of her own. "They like knowing that we still need them."

Mark suddenly remembered that Roger was supposed to be icing his muscles, so he quietly walked over to the freezer and opened it, pulling out a large bag of ice. They'd picked it up on their way back from the clinic so they could easily make ice packs. He pulled out a Ziploc bag and filled it with the frozen cubes, squeezing the air out of it and zipping it closed. He walked back into the living room and handed it to his roommate. "Ice it for a while," he ordered sternly. "You're supposed to do it as much as possible."

Roger reluctantly took it, slowly lifting it and pressing it against the area around his collar bone. It didn't look particularly comfortable. The doctor at the clinic had given them a long, soft bandage and showed them how to secure the ice so he didn't have to hold it the whole time. They'd have to give that a shot later.

Mark helped his sister unload the rest of the food and placed it in the cupboards or the refrigerator, and then threw away the empty bags. The boys had been wandering around the loft in an effort to explore, though Tasha had stayed close to her mother. He hadn't even heard her speak yet.

He bent down to her level, smiling at her encouragingly. "Hey Tasha, what's your bear's name?" he wondered, pointing to the stuffed toy clasped tightly in her arms. She squeezed it even tighter.

"Brownie," she answered.

He couldn't help but chuckle at the lack of creativity. "That's a nice name. It fits him."

She nodded, and he noticed that she was glancing back and forth between him and Roger, as if curious about the two of them.

"Do you want to meet Roger now?" he asked, pointing to his friend. The man was hanging back cautiously, obviously still discouraged after her refusal to greet him earlier.

This time she shook her head, looking away from them and pulling her teddy bear close. Cindy gave Mark a worried glance, obviously confused at her daughter's behavior.

"Come on, Tasha," Mark encouraged, desperately hoping that she'd become more open to Roger's presence. He wasn't sure exactly what it was that caused her to be so wary of him. "Roger's a fun guy, you'll like him." He motioned for his friend to join them, and Roger did so reluctantly, slowly kneeling down next to Mark. He smiled at the little girl once more and she only looked at him for a fraction of a second before looking away again.

"Tasha, why don't you go give Roger a hug, like you gave Uncle Mark?" Cindy suggested, patting the girl gently on the back. "I think he'd like that."

The five-year-old refused by burying her head into her stuffed bear, and then turning around and leaning into her mother's legs. Cindy watched her daughter with frustration, and looked to be opening her mouth to scold the girl, but Roger stood up suddenly and said, "It's okay, Cindy." He laughed lightly, though Mark could tell it wasn't completely genuine. "Stranger danger, I get it." Mark was proud of his friend for the way he was handling the situation.

Cindy bit her lip and gave him a concerned look. "I'm so sorry," she apologized sincerely. "I'm sure she'll open up more if you give her some time."

Roger nodded, the smile still plastered on his face as Mimi reached out a comforting hand to gently place it on his back. "Sure, don't worry about it," he assured her.

With a sigh and a peek at her watch, Cindy said, "I really should get going." She turned to face Mark. "Do you have everything you need?"

He quickly ran through a mental checklist and then nodded his head. "I think so. We'll be fine."

She nodded. "Okay, just don't be afraid to get tough with them if you need to," she warned. "And call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay."

She smiled. "Thanks again, Mark, for doing this."

"I'm glad they're here," he answered with a grin, watching the boys run through the living room.

"Boys, come say goodbye!" she called to them, and then knelt down and placed her hands on Tasha's face. "Bye bye, sweetheart," she said with a smile, looking into her daughter's eyes. "I'll miss you. Have fun with your uncles this week, okay?" Tasha nodded a bit uncertainly and clasped her arms tightly around Cindy's neck, giving her a massive hug. The boys joined in as well and kissed their mom goodbye. She smiled at them. "I love all of you," she said, standing up. Collins handed her the car keys off the table, and Mark ushered her to the door.

"Bye," he said, also giving her a hug. "We'll take care of them."

She nodded. "I know you will. Bye, Mark!"

He watched her descend down the stairs, giving him one last smile and wave before she disappeared from view. He re-entered the loft to find the boys talking excitedly to Roger and Collins, while Tasha seemed to be just staring at Roger, watching him. As soon as the musician turned to look at her, she averted her gaze, and Roger's shoulders drooped slightly.

Mark sighed. This was going to be interesting.


	25. Chapter 25

**Here we go! Also, many thanks to those of you who reviewed last chapter :) I'm really enjoying writing the kids, so I had a blast with this one. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 25**

May 10, 1992

Mark's lingering exhaustion was completely forgotten as the afternoon went on. They'd started with a tour of the loft, though there wasn't much to see, and the amazement on the kids' faces had amused him greatly. Perhaps it was interesting to them because it was so different from the home that they were raised in. Whatever the reason, he loved seeing the wonder in their eyes as he let them peek into his room and then Roger's, despite the fact that they were messier than hell.

Afterwards, they'd helped the kids unpack their belongings. Some shuffling with regards to sleeping arrangements had been in order, which Mark hadn't completely thought through when he'd agreed to have the children stay over. They'd all brought sleeping bags, but there was no way that he was going to make them crash on the floor for a week. He ended up directing the boys to drop their things in his room, and Roger had graciously offered up his own for Tasha to stay in, even though the little girl still hadn't spoken a word to him since she'd been there. The kids could have their beds, at least for a couple nights while they settled in. Mark had quickly done some last-minute tidying-up, which really meant throwing everything from the floor into the closet or kicking it under the bed.

By the time they'd gotten everyone settled, it was about 4:00, and Maureen, Joanne, and Collins had left to return to their apartments for the night. Even though they had visitors, the loft felt somewhat empty without them around. Their presences had become so familiar and so comfortable that it was hard to adjust to their sudden absence.

He approached the kitchen table where Mimi spoke to Tasha as she colored. Roger stood back a couple feet and listened, but didn't contribute to the conversation. Mark could tell that the man was wary of upsetting the little girl again. He frowned. He didn't know why the kid wouldn't speak to his friend. Did he scare her? Was it because he was bigger than Mark, and therefore more imposing? But Collins was even larger than Roger, and the girl hadn't had an issue with him. Admittedly, Roger's style was different than the rest of them… He had the ever-present chain hanging from his jean pocket, and at the moment he was wearing a sleeveless tee that revealed the tattoo on his upper arm. His bleached hair was, as always, in short, gelled spikes, and a small earring hung from each ear. Mark had become so accustomed to his friend's look that he didn't even notice anymore, but he realized that Roger really did give off the 'bad-boy' vibe. He could see how that would be intimidating for a girl like Tasha. She was still quite young, and she probably hadn't been exposed to all the different New Yorkers out there. An inquiring voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey, Uncle Mark. Why's this broken?"

He turned around to see Jake crouched on the wooden chair in the living room, bouncing up and down and observing the pieces of the arm and backrest shifting loosely where they used to connect. "Careful, Jake," he warned, watching nervously as the boy's motion caused the chair to wobble dangerously. "Sit down, Bud."

Jake pouted but did as he was told, plopping onto his backside and swinging his feet over the edge. "Why's it broken?" he asked again, now rocking side to side instead.

Before Mark could respond, a tearing sound grabbed his attention, and he turned his head to see Ryan curiously pulling at a piece of duct tape holding the torn couch cushions together. "Ryan, no!" Mark called out, quickly approaching the boy and removing the piece of tape from his hand, carefully smoothing it back into place. "Leave that there, please."

"Uncle Mark, why is this broken?" Jake's voice had gotten louder, as if to make sure that Mark was listening to him.

He heard a quiet chuckle and he glanced over at Roger, who was watching with a smirk on his face, obviously enjoying himself. Mark glared at his roommate, not appreciating the lack of help.

"Roger broke it," he finally answered, hoping that would shift the boy's attention away from himself. It worked.

"Uncle Roger, how'd you break it?" Jake wondered, now turning to look at the musician instead.

Roger scowled at Mark briefly before facing the little boy and answering, "I sat on the armrest, and it broke."

Mark snickered. That had been funny. He clearly remembered Roger taking a seat on the wooden armrest because the actual chair had been occupied by Maureen, and then practically falling into her lap when the thing gave out with a loud _crack!_

"Oh," Jake said, nodding his head up and down in understanding.

"I accidentally broke a chair once, and Mama made me go to my room," Ryan chimed in. "Did you get in trouble?"

Mark and Roger laughed at the innocent question. "No, I didn't get in trouble," Roger said, smiling at the boy.

"Next time, though, I'll send him to his room," Mark joked with a teasing glance.

"Hey boys," Mimi said to them with a smile, "look at this beautiful picture that Tasha drew." She was holding up a piece of paper that looked to be completely covered in streaks of crayon, and Tasha was grinning proudly.

Mark left the couch and walked over to the table, reaching out and taking the picture from Mimi's hand while Roger looked over his shoulder at the drawing.

He stared at it for a brief moment. "Oh, wow!" He exclaimed enthusiastically. "That's…" What _was_ that? He couldn't really tell. It was a typical five-year-old's drawing consisting of an assortment of colors and shapes that were probably meant to construct a picture, but didn't actually resemble anything.

"That's upside-down," Roger whispered in his ear, and his eyes widened. He quickly flipped the paper around, taking another look and hoping that this time he'd be able to decipher the picture. He couldn't.

Instead of attempting to guess, he said, "That's very nice, Tasha!"

"Guess what it is!" she demanded eagerly, watching his face with a smile. Her eyes were bright and enthusiastic, obviously thrilled that he liked the piece of art.

_Fuck_, he thought with dread. He didn't want to hurt her feelings when he guessed wrong, but he really couldn't tell what it was. It was just a blend of color and some lopsided circles and scribbles. He caught Mimi's eye, and he could tell that she wasn't really sure either.

He was about to confess that he didn't know when Roger suddenly spoke up. "It's a sunset," he said quietly, pointing to the streaks of color. "And there's some trees and some rocks."

Mark gave Roger a surprised look, and then shifted his eyes to Tasha. The smile disappeared and she looked away, refusing to make eye contact with Roger. He felt his friend shift uncomfortably at the little girl's behavior.

"It's a sunset, isn't it, Tasha?" he questioned when she didn't offer any words. She met his gaze and the smile returned as she nodded. "It's very good," he praised. He attempted to hand the picture back to her, but she shook her head.

"It's for you, Uncle Mark!"

"For me?" he questioned, his eyes widening at the thoughtful motion by the girl. "Thank you, Tasha, that's very nice of you!" He bent down and smiled at her, pulling her into a small hug. "I'm going to put it on the refrigerator right now," he announced, walking over to the kitchen. He grabbed Roger's sleeve on the way, pulling his friend along with him.

"I'm sorry, Rog," he whispered as he placed the picture on the door of the refrigerator. "I don't know why she acts like that towards you." He felt horrible, but there was nothing he could think of that would help the situation without pressuring the young child too much.

Roger shrugged. "It's fine, I don't care. Reminds me of high school," he joked weakly, a half-assed smile on his face.

Mark gave a small smile back, allowing Roger to brush it off if he wanted to. He knew that his friend truly was bothered by the girl's attitude toward him, but he also knew that the man would never admit it.

"Uncle Roger!" Ryan yelled from the living room, demanding his attention. "Can you play your guitar now?" he questioned eagerly, a hopeful expression on his face. Mark chuckled. The boys had seen the instrument in Roger's room earlier, and Mark knew they'd been (almost) patiently waiting for a good time to ask him to play.

Roger grinned at them. "Sure," he answered, heading towards his room and grabbing the electric. Mark followed as he joined the boys in the living room and took a seat on the couch while Roger deftly plugged the guitar into the amp and settled himself on a stool, pulling it into his lap. He noticed the slight wince when the man raised his right arm, but he didn't comment on it.

"Okay," Roger said, balancing the guitar on his knee. He slipped the pick out from its position wedged between the strings, and paused briefly with a thoughtful expression on his face. Mark knew he was deciding on a song to play.

"'We Weren't Born to Follow,'" Mark suggested. The kids wouldn't really understand the lyrics, but the guitar piece would impress them.

Roger shrugged. "Okay."

As soon as he began the song, Mark noticed wide grins spread across the boys' faces. They were watching Roger's fingers dance over the strings excitedly, eyes bright with wonder at the melody coming from the instrument. It was interesting to hear the song without the drums and the other guitar that normally accompanied it.

Roger was nodding his head along with the music as he played, and then he began singing quietly.

Mark smiled as he observed the boys' reactions to the music. They loved it, and they were looking at Roger with wonder, obviously amazed at his talent. Roger, however, avoided eye-contact with all of them, as was his custom when playing for a small audience. He was much more comfortable pretending that nobody was even there.

As his friend continued, a small body appeared at Mark's side and caught his attention. He looked down to see that Tasha had abandoned her drawing and wandered over curiously, watching and listening with interest. She was again clutching her teddy bear tightly, and she'd pressed herself against Mark's legs. He smiled as Mimi joined them as well.

When Roger finished the song and the last chords faded out, the boys jumped up from their seats and ran over to the musician, who gently leaned the guitar against the couch. Mark laughed as the boys reached up and grabbed at Roger's forearms, shaking him slightly and exclaiming things like, "That was so cool!" and "I want to learn!" They were practically climbing over him in their excitement.

Jake was bouncing on his toes as he held on to Roger's arm. His expression was pleading and serious. "Can you teach me? Please?"

Roger looked at him in surprise for a moment before saying, "Sure. I can help you get started, at least."

Jake grinned and launched himself at Roger's waist, nearly knocking him off the stool, and wrapped him in a tight hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" he said. Mark and Mimi chuckled as the man's eyes widened and he quickly shifted to regain his balance, then laughed and ruffled the boy's hair affectionately.

"You bet, kid."

Mark held his breath as Tasha took a step towards Roger and her brothers, but then she paused and retreated back to her previous position, eyes still focused on the musician curiously. She didn't necessarily seem _afraid_ of Roger; she just seemed shy around him, like perhaps she didn't quite know how to act.

"Will you play another one?" Ryan begged, tugging at Roger's sleeve.

"Yeah, of course," he responded happily, reaching for his guitar again.

Mark was thrilled to see that the boys, at least, had taken to Roger immediately and were treating him like an uncle. He and his roommate were like family, and it was only fitting that the kids treat him the same way. He peeked downwards at Tasha once more, whose eyes remained fixed on the musician.

"What do you think, Tasha? Do you like the music?" he asked, touching her shoulder gently.

She briefly raised her eyes to meet his and then resumed her staring, but she nodded. "Yeah," she answered quietly, an unsure quality to her childish tone.

Mimi bent down next to the girl. "I bet Roger would play a special song for you if you asked him to," she informed the girl kindly, pointing towards her boyfriend. "Why don't you go see?"

Tasha fiercely shook her head in immediate refusal, and Mark internally sighed. Whatever her deal was, he _really _hoped she'd get over it. Quickly.

* * *

Roger entertained the kids for over an hour playing the guitar, and then he brought out the acoustic and let Jake try it while Ryan watched. It was a big guitar for a little guy, and the boy struggled to hold it at first. Roger helped him adjust his positioning to make things easier, and then he began giving a lesson similar to what he'd given Mark the first time, though more simplified.

Mark was awfully proud of his friend. The man was doing a nice job of explaining things in terms that a young mind would understand, and he remained encouraging and patient as he waited for his student to capture the concepts. It was slow-going, and Jake struggled quite a bit, but it was easy to see that they were both enjoying themselves.

He grabbed his camera from his room quickly and turned it on, aiming it towards the two musicians.

"May 10, 1992, 5:45 p.m., Eastern Standard Time," he narrated, and he saw Roger look up at the familiar phrase. "What'cha doing, Roger?"

Jake also looked up curiously, not quite sure what was going on.

Roger smirked. "I'm shaping the future of music as we know it," he answered, eyes twinkling. "Producing a rockstar. Right, Jake?"

The boy grinned. "Right!"

Mark chuckled. "Sounds ambitious," he joked with his friend, who smiled and shrugged.

"Someone's gotta do it."

Mark laughed once more and was about to put the camera down when Ryan spoke up suddenly.

"Uncle Mark, what are you doing?" he asked curiously, pointing at the object in Mark's hands.

"Recording," he answered. "In case I want to put this in a movie later."

Ryan's eyes widened and he smiled. "Really? That's so cool! How does it work?" The boy got up from his seat and hustled over to Mark, trying to get a better look at the device.

He grinned at the enthusiasm he could see on the young face. "It uses something called film to store videos, and you can cut that film apart and put it back together again if you want to change something." Ryan was nodding, trying to follow along. "Do you want me to show you?" he questioned, not quite sure whether the boy really cared that much, but the child's eyes widened and he nodded vigorously.

"Yes!" he practically shouted, and Mark laughed.

"Okay, come here." Ryan trotted after him quickly as he made his way over to his equipment, and he caught Mimi giving him a warm smile as he passed her. She and Tasha were sitting on the couch, watching Roger and Jake practice.

He began showing Ryan around the equipment and explaining the use of the projector. The kid surprised him with the amount of interest he showed. He continuously asked questions about the devices in an effort to gain a greater understanding, and the inquiries seemed to be quite intelligent for an eight-year-old. Mark was impressed.

When he finally looked at his watch again, it was going on 6:30.

"Who's hungry?" he questioned, looking around the room at the kids whose heads had perked up from their various activities.

"Me!" they all exclaimed, raising their hands. Roger, too, raised his hand.

"What sounds good?" He was a little nervous about making dinner. After all, his prowess in the kitchen was only slightly above zero, and he knew that Roger wouldn't be much help, if any. Mimi, however, was a decent cook, and she could probably guide him along the right path if she needed to.

"Mac 'n cheese!" Jake called out.

"Pizza!" That was Ryan.

Mark went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards, taking another look at the newly supplied shelves. Cindy brought quite a bit of food, some of which included ready-to-make pizzas that were in the freezer, various boxes of macaroni and cheese, and cans of Spaghettios. They also had bread and sandwich meat, so they could utilize that at some point, and Cindy had graciously tucked an envelope with a hundred dollars into one of the bags in case they wanted to take the kids out for food or needed to get more groceries.

"You good with pizza, Jake?" That was simple. All he had to do was unwrap it and put it in the oven.

"Yeah, I guess," the boy answered with a shrug.

"What about you, Tash? You want some pizza?" The girl nodded enthusiastically, and Mark smiled. "Good. Pizza it is."

He set the old oven to heat up and grabbed a pepperoni pizza out of the freezer, catching sight of the bag of ice he and Roger had tossed in their earlier._ Whoops,_ he thought. He was going to have to force his roommate to ice, or it would never get done. Earlier, the man had only kept the ice pack on for about 10 minutes before tossing it aside, tired of holding it there.

He opened the pizza box and removed the plastic wrapped food, setting it on the counter until the oven was warm. Opening the freezer once more, he again grabbed the bag of frozen cubes and made up another ice pack, wrapped it in a paper towel, and then dug the soft, rolled-up bandage that the doctor had given them out of his room. Walking towards Roger's place on the stool, he said, "Here, Rog. Let's try to wrap some ice on there so you don't have to hold it."

Roger glanced up and Mark thought he was going to refuse, but he eventually nodded before turning to the boy he was sitting with. "How about we take a little break?" he suggested, slowly leaning his guitar against the couch. Mark could tell from the way he moved that the injury was sore.

Jake nodded. "Okay." He studied Roger's guitar carefully, and then placed his next to it in the same position. The boy had actually lasted quite a while, though Mark could see him now rubbing at his sore fingertips. He remembered that feeling.

"Take this off for a second," Mark said, tugging at the sleeve of his friend's shirt. Roger pulled it over his head carefully, mostly using his left arm, and set it on the armrest of the couch.

"It does look better," Mimi observed, joining them. She reached out and gently brushed the still prominent scar, her eyes sad, and then moved her hand to run it over Roger's hair lightly. "At least that's something."

Roger nodded, giving her a reassuring smile.

Mark pursed his lips as he tried to think back to the clinic that afternoon. "Alright, so I think he started something like this." He placed the paper towel-wrapped ice pack directly on top of the scar, and Roger sucked in a breath when the chilly substance touched his bare skin.

"Holy shi-" Mark shot him a look and he cut himself off quickly. Roger's eyes widened guiltily as he glanced around at the children, who were trying to watch the proceedings from their seats. "Shoot," he corrected immediately. "That's cold."

"Good save," Mark mumbled, incredibly grateful that the man had censored himself. He didn't quite know how he'd justify it to Cindy if the kids picked up some new vocabulary during their stay.

Looking down again, he tried to copy the way that the doctor at the clinic had wrapped the bandage. He started from underneath the right arm and went around Roger's chest, under his left arm, and up and over his right shoulder, and then began to repeat the motion, making sure it was tight enough to hold the ice in place.

"What happened?" Ryan finally asked curiously, eyeing the ice and the bandage. Tasha and Jake were listening intently for the answer as well, and the little girl was once again merely staring at Roger.

Mark caught his friend's eye, a silent communication passing between them. "Ummm, Roger just hurt himself a little bit," he explained evasively, continuing his task and hoping that they'd be satisfied with that answer.

"How?" That was Jake.

Mark sighed. The story obviously wasn't appropriate for young ears, and he felt a little pang of sadness deep inside him. So much of their lives consisted of things that these kids should not be exposed to. How much could he really tell his niece and nephews about himself and the events that shaped him? He couldn't tell them that he'd gotten fed up with his parents and moved away from home, because that wasn't something they needed to hear just yet. He couldn't tell them that, for years, he'd almost cut off contact with his family altogether—he wasn't proud of that fact, and he didn't want to share it. And there was no way in hell he could mention how, eventually, they'd all hit rock bottom and Roger had started drugs, and then April _died_, and then the AIDS and the withdrawal and the poverty… Did it ever end? Was there anything he _could _tell them? At least, anything that really _mattered_?

"Uncle Mark?"

The voice brought him out of his thoughts and he glanced over at the kids, who were staring at him curiously, awaiting an answer. Roger and Mimi kept quiet, sensing that this was a question they should let him handle.

With another sigh, he paused what he was doing. If they wanted an answer, he was going to give it to them as straight as possible, though without crossing the line. "Look guys, all you need to know is there are some bad people out there who will do whatever it takes to get what they want." The kids stared at him with wide eyes, quite attentive to his words. He continued, glad that they were listening. "Sometimes, when you get the chance, you need to do what you can to stop those people, even if it's not easy. That's what Roger did. He helped someone get away from one of these bad people, and unfortunately, he got hurt." He turned his head to finish wrapping the bandage. "But what matters is that he made a difference in somebody's life, and I know that that person, and the people who care about her, are going to be grateful to him forever." He glanced up briefly to meet Roger's eyes, which were focused on him intently. His friend gave a small nod, understanding that Mark was taking a moment to thank him personally for saving Erin from harm. "Does that make sense?" he asked, looking over at the children once more. He realized that Tasha was probably too young to really comprehend what he was saying, but the twins might be able to grasp the idea behind it.

The kids nodded slowly, their eyes still wide. Mark was worried for a moment that he'd scared them, but then Ryan spoke up. "I get it," he said. "It's like how Mama tells us that sometimes doing the right thing is scary, but you have to do it anyway because people are counting on you."

Mark smiled at the boy's answer and couldn't help but give him a proud look. His voice and mannerisms were quite childish, but the kid was intelligent beyond his years. "Exactly." He returned to his nearly-finished work, pinning the bandage into place with some small metal clips, and leaned back, observing the final product. It actually seemed to be quite effective. The ice pack was wrapped up securely underneath the bandage, forming a lump where it rested against Roger's collarbone. "How's that feel?"

Roger slowly shifted his arm, testing to see if the ice pack would stay in place, and nodded when it remained in its proper position. "Good," he answered with a smile. "Thanks."

Mark clapped him on the knee. "No problem." As he spun around to return to the kitchen, he saw Roger stand up and head toward his room. When he reappeared, he was in the process of clasping the bottom buttons on a black long sleeved shirt. Mimi picked up the shirt that he'd been wearing earlier and threw it at him, hitting him square in the face.

"Put that away," she commanded with a smile. "We just cleaned up."

Mark chuckled when his friend made a face and stuck his tongue out at her childishly, and then walked over and joined him in the kitchen. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms and looking across the loft towards the kids. Mark followed his gaze and then frowned slightly.

"Do you think I told them too much?" he questioned, seeking an honest answer. "They're old enough to hear that, don't you think?"

Roger's face was thoughtful, and then he nodded. "I think so." He shrugged, though it was made somewhat awkward due to the large object strapped to his shoulder. "They have to learn eventually, and it was a better answer than just brushing it off."

"Yeah." He shook his head. "It sucks that those are the kinds of lessons that we have to teach them."

Roger nodded. "Yeah, it does. But you handled it well."

Mark smiled. "Thanks. Any more questions like that, though, and you're helping out," he joked.

"Fine. But if one of them asks where babies come from, you're on your own."

Mark's eyes widened in horror. "How about we leave that to Mimi?"

Roger snickered. "Deal."

* * *

When the kids started yawning around 8:00 that night, Mark felt a jolt of surprise. He hadn't even considered the fact that it was probably close to bedtime for them. Quite frankly, he'd forgotten that such a thing even existed. But if he was honest with himself, it wouldn't be long until he was ready for sleep, too. Once again, the exhaustion from his late night was catching up with him, and he had to be at work by seven the next morning, so hitting the sack early probably wouldn't be a bad idea.

"Okay guys," Mark said, reluctantly standing up from the couch. He'd just finished reading a picture book that had been tucked away in Tasha's bag to the little girl, who was leaning against his side to catch a glimpse of the illustrations. Roger, Mimi, and the boys were listening as well while they sat on the floor and played a card game. Everybody stopped as Mark spoke up. "It's bedtime," he announced. "Why don't you guys go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on?"

He was worried that the kids were going to argue with him, but to his delight they were quite agreeable, and stood up to get ready for bed. They were obviously beat as well, and Mark didn't blame them. Adjusting to a new place was taxing on the body.

He leaned back into the hard cushions, letting out a sigh. "So, do you want the couch tonight?" he asked, looking down at Roger. One of them was going to have to either sleep on the floor or find another location that worked.

Mimi turned to Roger. "Why don't you just come stay with me tonight?"

Roger shook his head. "I can't. Mark's got to leave early tomorrow and we can't leave the kids up here alone."

Mark nodded, backing up Roger's explanation. He'd have to be out of the loft by about 20 to seven, and there was no way that Roger would be awake and back from Mimi's by then. "I'm going to bring my alarm clock out, by the way," he said, locating the extension cord running across the floor. "I'll set it for nine after I get up. Is that okay?" He knew Roger liked to sleep in, but he didn't know exactly when the kids would be awake, and they'd need someone to get them some breakfast.

Roger nodded. "Yeah. You can have the couch. I'll take the floor."

"We'll swap tomorrow," Mark promised. "You sure you're going to be okay alone with them?" He felt badly. It'd be a lot of work to babysit all three of them, and Mark wouldn't be home to help out until the afternoon. "You can get them breakfast and lunch and stuff?"

Roger laughed. "Mark, it'll be fine. Believe it or not, I actually _do_ know how to pour cereal and make a sandwich."

Mark smiled. "Debatable," he retorted, and then laughed when Roger glanced around for the children before flipping him off. "Just, call the café if you need me, okay?"

"Will do."

Mimi pushed herself up onto her knees. "Well, I guess I'll head downstairs," she said, reaching over to pull Roger into an embrace. She kissed him on the lips gently. "Good night."

"Good night, Meems," he responded with a smile, brushing her chin softly with his thumb. "See you tomorrow." Watching them together made Mark think of Erin once more. He'd have to call her soon and let her know about the kids.

Mimi nodded and stood up, heading toward the door. "Good night, Mark."

"See you."

Almost as soon as she'd left the loft, the kids reappeared, now dressed in their pajamas and holding their toothbrushes in hand. Mark led them to the bathroom and got them cleaned up, then took them back into the living room, where Roger was still sitting. "Alright, why don't you guys say goodnight to Uncle Roger?" he suggested. The boys immediately scurried to Roger's side and jumped into his lap, wrapping their arms around his neck.

"Night!" they said, smiling widely.

"Thanks for playing guitar with me," Jake added, and Roger nodded, also grinning.

"We'll practice more tomorrow, okay?"

Jake nodded enthusiastically, and the boys returned to Mark. Tasha hadn't moved from her place at his side, and she didn't look like she had plans to.

"Good night, Tasha," Roger said with a small wave and a smile at the little girl. She looked away from him with nervous eyes.

Mark looked at Roger sadly, and his roommate shrugged in dismissal. "I'm going to head upstairs for a little bit," he said, standing up. "I'll be down in a few."

"Sure. Make sure you get some sleep, though," Mark said, watching his friend leave the loft and then leading the twins to his bedroom. They crawled into bed immediately and tucked themselves under the covers, snuggling together instinctively. Mark smiled. "Good night, guys," he said, and leaned down to kiss each of them on their foreheads. It was a strange gesture, considering he'd never done it before, but somehow it felt right. The boys reached up their arms to snag him in a hug.

"Good night Uncle Mark," Ryan whispered. "I'm really glad we got to come over here."

"Me too," Jake added with a sleepy nod.

Mark couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "I'm really glad, too. I'll see you guys when I get home from work tomorrow, okay? Be good for Roger."

They nodded, and he ruffled their hair before turning around and heading towards the door, putting a hand on Tasha's small shoulder and leading her out. He quietly closed the door behind him and directed the young girl across the loft to Roger's room. She, too, immediately climbed into bed, cozying herself under the covers.

"Good night, Tash," Mark said with a smile, and he gave her a kiss as well.

She gave him a pretty smile in return. "Night, Uncle Mark. Love you."

His eyes widened in surprise at the five-year-old's words, but his heart swelled gratefully. "Love you, too, kiddo."

He grabbed his alarm clock out of the room and walked to the door, waving once more before closing it behind him. Within minutes, he'd scrounged up some blankets and pillows and piled them on the floor for Roger, and then grabbed a couple for himself and plugged the alarm clock into the long extension cord running across the ground. He quickly brushed his own teeth and removed his jeans, and then collapsed onto the couch with a sigh. It had been a long day, and he was so tired. In fact, it was only a matter of seconds before he felt a deep sense of calm wash over him, and he drifted off into a relaxed sleep.

* * *

He woke slowly, immediately noticing that the loft was still dark and it appeared to be late. He squinted at his clock, trying to read the face, and was puzzled to see that it was just past 11. Roger still wasn't in sight. He was even more confused when he heard the muffled sound of sobbing. With a start, he jumped to his feet and followed the noise, immensely worried that something was wrong with one of the kids. The quiet cries led him directly to Roger's bedroom, and he nervously pushed open the already cracked door and peeked in. He was shocked at what he saw.

An uncomfortable-looking Roger was sitting on the edge of his bed, gently holding Tasha's small, crying form in his arms. She had her thin arms thrown around him and was squeezing tightly, and her face was pressed into the base of his neck as she cried. "Shhh," he was whispering quietly. "It's all right, Tasha. You're okay."

Mark stepped into the room, and the movement caught Roger's attention. "What's going on?" he wondered, approaching the bed and sitting down next to his friend. He gave Tasha a worried glance.

"She had a nightmare, I think," Roger responded in a hushed tone. "I heard her making noise and I came in to check on her. She was crying in her sleep, so I woke her up and she just kind of grabbed on. I think she's finally calming down, though." He gave a confused shrug.

"How long ago?" Mark wondered.

"About ten minutes."

Mark, also quite confused, looked at the shaking girl sadly and put a hand on her back. "Tasha? Can you tell me what you dreamed about?"

She nodded her head, still pressed against Roger's body and soaking his collar with her tears. "There was lots of scary monsters," she explained, her breath catching a bit, "and Mommy and Daddy left me and took Jake and Ryan, and I was all alone and couldn't get away." She began to cry harder as she spoke, and Mark nodded his head. He didn't really understand the broken retelling of the dream, but he got the gist of it.

"You're safe now. Nothing can hurt you."

The girl merely squeezed Roger's neck more tightly, and Mark gave him a concerned look. "You okay?" he asked, eyeing the way Tasha was pressed against his friend's sore shoulder. It was so strange, that she was holding him so tightly, considering that she'd refused to speak to him just a couple hours ago.

"I'm good."

Mark nodded and sat with his roommate as he held Tasha, letting the child cry out the rest of her fear. Finally, she'd seemed to calm down enough that her tears had stopped and she was now just resting.

"Ready to get back to sleep, Tasha?" Mark questioned gently, reaching out to brush a hand over her blonde hair. She nodded, and Roger took that as his cue to stand up. As he turned to put her down on the bed, she wrapped her legs around his waist and quickly shook her head.

"No!" she cried out childishly, latching onto him tighter and pressing her face against him once more.

Roger's eyes widened and he gave Mark a questioning look. The girl didn't want to let go. "What's the matter?" Roger asked. "It'll be okay. Mark and I will be right outside."

"No," she said again. She raised her head to look at Roger's face. "Wanna stay with you," she told him. Once again, Roger looked at Mark, and this time his expression was nervous. He obviously had no idea what he should do.

Mark shrugged, eyes wide. "She's scared," he whispered to his friend. "She doesn't want to be alone."

"Do you want to take her?" Roger mouthed silently. He was still uncomfortable around her, it seemed, and he looked worried that he was doing something wrong.

Mark shrugged. "Tash, do you want me to stay with you?"

"Want to stay with Uncle Roger," she said again, and Mark's mouth opened in surprise. She'd just called him _Uncle _Roger. Whatever his friend had done to comfort the girl, he'd obviously endeared himself to her.

Mark smiled as he caught the musician's confused gaze and shrugged. He wondered if Roger noticed that he was rocking back and forth gently in what must have been an instinctive motion, trying to comfort the child.

"Relax," Mark chuckled, standing up as well. "Okay, Tasha, you can come hang out with us for a bit." He led the way to the door, Roger following close behind, and they stepped out into the large open space of the loft. He took a seat on the couch, which was covered in a couple of crinkled blankets, and leaned back. Roger, still carrying the small child, took a seat next to him. The girl snuggled into Roger's body as he sat down, making herself comfortable. Mark snickered quietly. He never thought he'd see the day that his tough, rocker best friend played babysitter to a scared five-year-old girl.

Roger sighed, also leaning back and settling in. Tasha seemed to already be on her way to falling back asleep, though her grip around Roger's neck had barely loosened.

"Thanks, Rog," Mark said quietly, sending his friend an appreciative glance.

Roger frowned. "For what?"

"For being there for her," he answered, staring at Tasha's now-peaceful face.

"I didn't really do anything. Just woke her up."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, but in a way that protected her from the monsters, or whatever they were. And you sat with her so she wasn't scared. I think she finally realizes she can trust you."

"Why do you think she didn't want to talk to me?" Roger asked curiously.

Mark shrugged as he glanced down at Tasha once more. "I don't know. I think you're probably something new to her—the tattoos and the chains and stuff," he admitted. "Who knows? Maybe kids are just weird like that." He grinned. "Whatever it was, she must have gotten over it. It doesn't look like she's going to let you go anytime soon."

Roger smiled and lowered his head to look at the girl, whose eyes were closed in sleep. "That's okay," he said quietly, and Mark almost beamed at the fondness he heard in the man's tone. The girl's sudden need to hold on to Roger may have been surprising, but he could tell that his friend really didn't mind.

He smirked and leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling and losing himself in thought until deep breathing caught his attention. He turned to see Roger slumbering peacefully, his head tilted sideways and propped up against the backrest, and a sleeping Tasha draped over his chest, rising and falling with the motion of his breathing. He grinned, immediately deciding not to bother either of them, and shifted himself into the comfiest half-sitting position he could. With a final glance at the strange pair next to him, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

May 13, 1992

"Whatcha doing, Uncle Mark?"

He looked up as Tasha wandered over and peeked at the newspaper on his lap. She had her stuffed bear, Brownie, held securely under her arm, and she cocked her head to the side just slightly as she questioned him.

"Just reading," he replied with a smile. He patted the couch next to him. "You want to come up?"

With a nod, Tasha clambered her way up onto the cushion and squeezed against his side. He let out a little huff of silent laughter. In the past three days, he'd noticed that the little girl absolutely loved to cuddle. If either he or Roger sat down for even a moment, she'd be glued against their sides until they reluctantly told her they needed to get up. "Where's Uncle Roger?"

He put an arm around the girl's shoulders and pulled her close before glancing across the loft. Jake and Ryan were sitting on the floor playing with some action figures that they'd brought from home. It was frustrating, but he still had trouble telling the two of them apart. He'd taken to just looking at their clothes to distinguish which was which.

It had been a quiet morning around the loft. Mark had actually been given the day off of work for no particular reason, so he'd been tasked with the babysitting job while Roger eagerly headed out for rehearsal. Mark knew his friend was incredibly excited to get back to playing shows. He'd been practicing for hours at a time, both with and without the rest of the band, in order to make up for all that he'd missed during his recovery. "He's at rehearsal, remember? He'll be back in a couple of minutes," he informed the child.

She nodded, her face lighting up, and he chuckled and turned back to his paper. The little girl had taken quite a liking to his best friend, and her behavior towards him was the complete opposite of her first day at the loft. He could barely keep her away from the man.

Tasha was quiet for a minute before she raised her chin from its resting place on Mark's arm, and her bright blue eyes twinkled curiously as she stared at him. "Will you tell me a story?"

His eyebrow rose and he gave her a questioning look. "What kind of story?"

She shrugged, and suddenly grinned widely. "About you and Roger!"

He laughed at her enthusiasm, but he had no idea what he could tell her that was entertaining and still appropriate for five-year-old ears. He hummed thoughtfully, racking his brain for something that would work, and smiled fondly when a memory came to him. He may need to leave out parts of the conversations, but it would do. "Okay, I'll tell you one," he said, and he saw the boys slowly perk up and slide a bit closer, obviously listening carefully. "Do you guys like dogs?" he asked suddenly, and the kids nodded excitedly. He smiled. "Good. One time, when we were about 15, Roger and I were walking home from school…"

"_I'm huuuuungry," Mark whined pitifully, traipsing along the sidewalk next to Roger. His backpack bounced against him steadily with each step._

_Roger smirked. "Yeah, probably because you skipped lunch."_

"_I didn't have time to eat! The bell rang as soon as I finished helping Carson with his project."_

"_I know, Mark," Roger laughed. "I was sitting right next to you guys, remember?"_

_Mark pouted a little bit. "I remember you were eating a sandwich." He wasn't in the best of moods. It was true that he hadn't eaten lunch, and then he'd hung out in the music room after school while Roger and Kerz played guitar instead of going home for food. His stomach was painfully protesting the lack of nourishment._

"_Hold this for a second," Roger ordered, handing Mark the hard case containing his instrument. Mark took it in confusion and watched as Roger slid one strap of his backpack off his shoulder and swung it around in front of him. He quickly unzipped a front pocket and dug inside, pulling out an energy bar in a shiny red wrapper. "Here, trade you," he said, reaching out a hand for his guitar and offering the snack with the other._

_Mark smiled gratefully and took the bar out of Roger's hand. "You're the best. Thanks."_

_He'd just unwrapped it and taken a bite when Roger put a hand on his arm to get his attention. "Hey, look."_

_Mark followed his pointed finger to a large cardboard box sitting on the sidewalk just a few feet ahead of them._

"_What is it?" he asked._

_Roger changed direction slightly and headed straight for the object. His brow furrowed, causing small lines to appear on his forehead. "I think it's a…" He paused midway through his response, peeking downwards curiously. "A puppy," he finished with surprise. Mark pulled up next to his friend and raised an eyebrow when he saw that Roger was correct. It was most definitely a small, brown Labrador puppy, probably only a couple months old. The little animal raised its watery eyes to them when they approached, and its small tail began wagging wildly. It jumped up from its sitting position and lunged excitedly at the side of the box, paws sliding against the slick cardboard. It let out a high-pitched yapping sound and whined pitifully, staring directly at them as if expecting something._

_Roger knelt down with a wide smile and reached out a hand. The puppy immediately burrowed his nose into Roger's fingers, the small pink tongue darting out and covering the boy's hand in saliva. Roger just laughed. He was a sucker for dogs, Mark knew._

"_Look at him," he said through his chuckles, and Mark bent down as well. He gave the animal a little scratch on the top of the head, amazed at the softness of his fur._

"_Yeah, he is pretty cute," he agreed. Roger suddenly put down his guitar case and reached out both hands, snatching the dog around the belly and lifting it into his arms. "Whoa, what are you doing?" Mark questioned reluctantly._

_Roger cradled the puppy against his chest tightly. The animal squirmed with delight, desperately attempting to reach Roger's chin with his sloppy tongue. "Taking him," he answered, as if it was obvious. "I'm not leaving him here. He'll die."_

_Mark shook his head. "No, Roger. What if it belongs to someone?"_

_Roger gave him a look. "Mark, they left him in a cardboard box on the side of the road. Nobody's coming for him."_

_He stared at his friend incredulously. "What, so you're just going to take him home with you? You know your mom's not going to let you keep him."_

_A sad expression crossed Roger's face. "I know. I'll hide him until I figure something out."_

_With a disbelieving snort, Mark raised an eyebrow. "You'll hide him? Where?"_

"_In my room."_

_Mark kept pushing. "And what are you going to feed him, Rog?"_

_Roger glanced at him briefly, and Mark saw his eyes lock onto the half-eaten energy bar in his hand. He reached out and snatched the bar from Mark's fingers before offering it to the puppy, who sniffed curiously and eagerly bit off a large chunk._

_Mark glared at him angrily. "Great. Thanks," he muttered, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Roger just shrugged._

"_Relax, there's another one in my bag." He shifted the small, brown dog onto his right arm and picked up his guitar case with the other. The puppy immediately wiggled around and tucked his head into Roger's chest, closing his eyes contentedly. He smirked. "Ready?"_

_Mark stared at him. "You're really going to do this, huh?"_

_With a nod, Roger began walking. "Yeah." He turned to look at Mark. "I won't be mad if you don't want to help me take care of him," he said. "And if you do, then great." He started walking away again, looking down at the puppy fondly._

_Mark didn't move for a moment and glanced down at the dingy box that the animal had been found in. His gaze wandered to his friend's back as he walked away. Mark sighed, and then rolled his eyes and smiled a little bit. The guy was so stubborn. He took off, jogging to catch up._

"_Of course I'll help you," he revealed, slowing to a walk in order to match his friend's pace. "On one condition."_

_Roger raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"_

"_Only if I can have the other energy bar in your backpack."_

_Roger laughed. "It's all yours."_

* * *

_When they were just down the street from his house, Roger stopped walking. Once again, he set his guitar on the ground and smiled at the soft brown animal in his arms. "Okay, bud," he said quietly. "I'm going to put you in here for just a couple minutes."_

_He unzipped his backpack and took out his books before handing them to Mark, who dropped them into his own bag. Roger gently picked up the dog and placed him carefully inside, leaving it unzipped marginally. The sides of the backpack moved as the puppy shifted, and a dark brown nose appeared where the zipper was open. "Stay inside," Roger said, gently pushing the nose back into the darkness. He slowly pulled the bag onto his back and stood up straight._

"_Will I pass?" he asked somewhat nervously, looking at Mark head on. Mark studied him, trying to see if he could tell that there was, in fact, an animal in his backpack._

_Fortunately, the puppy seemed to realize that he was meant to sit quietly, because the bag was still. Mark nodded. "I think so. I guess we'll find out."_

_They walked up the front steps to Roger's porch and he opened the door without a sound, attempting to avoid catching his mother's attention altogether. Mark slipped in behind his friend, shutting the door with an almost inaudible click. They were tip-toeing through the hallway in an effort to reach the stairs when Roger turned the corner, his guitar case smacking into the wall with a loud bang. Mark saw his friend wince, eyes closing in frustration._

"_Roger?" A voice came from the living room on their left, and within seconds, a woman appeared in the doorway. She smiled at them. "Hey, Rog, I didn't hear you come in. Hey, Mark!"_

_Mark waved with a friendly grin. "Hi Leslie."_

_Roger smiled at his mother weakly. "Hey Mom." Mark could see him turn his body slightly to keep the backpack shielded from view. He was slowly trying to shuffle his way towards the stairs, but his mom wasn't planning on letting them go._

"_How was school, boys?"_

"_It was fine," Roger responded quickly, nodding his head. "We're just going to go take our stuff upstairs and grab a snack. Mark missed lunch."_

_She nodded. "Okay. How was your math quiz today?"_

_Mark could see the frustration on Roger's features, but only because he was aware that it would be there. Out of his peripheral vision, he also noticed his friend's backpack expand on one side as the animal within leaned against it._

"_Uh, it was okay," Roger answered, eyes widening when he felt the movement. "I won't know my score for a couple days."_

_As soon as he finished speaking, a low growling sound filled the hallway, and Mark could tell that it came from the general vicinity of Roger's bag. Leslie Davis' eyes widened, and she looked at the two of them in confusion, obviously looking for the source of the noise. Roger seemed as though he was at a loss for an explanation, so Mark grabbed his stomach suddenly._

"_Sorry," he apologized quickly. "Roger was right. I skipped lunch." He didn't know if the lie would work, but he had to try something._

_Leslie gave him a kind look. "Not a problem, Mark. I'll make you guys some sandwiches. How's that sound?"_

_Mark nodded. "Great! Thank you."_

_She turned to walk down the hallway, and Roger gave him an appreciative look, relief obvious on his face. "Good thinking," he whispered, and they quickly headed towards the stairs._

_They tossed their stuff onto Roger's bed and closed the door, and then immediately opened the backpack to allow the puppy to crawl out. The brown dog took a few clumsy steps across the comforter, tripping slightly as his feet, which seemed too big for the rest of him, got tangled in the sheets. His ears perked up as Roger fell onto the bed next to him, smiling happily. "You were so good until the end," he told the dog, playfully pushing him over and rubbing his belly with a hand._

_Mark chuckled. "So where are you going to hide him? What if your mom comes up?"_

_Roger pursed his lips and gazed around the room. "I think I'll clean out a space in my closet." He quickly went about shoving clothes, shoes, and various items from the floor of his closet into other areas around the room. Mark watched and chuckled as a wet nose ran across his hand. He looked down to see the puppy sniffing curiously at his fingers. Gently, he pulled the little dog into his lap and scratched his neck, amused when he saw something like a smile pull at the animal's lips._

"_Okay, bring him over here," Roger ordered, and Mark did as he was told. There was an old blanket laid out across the floor of the closet, and he set the animal on top gently. The puppy pranced around exploring the new territory, and they laughed as he stuck his snout into one of Roger's shoes, almost so far that his whole head disappeared. He sniffed loudly and pulled his nose away and then moved across the closet, crouching down and peering into an empty plastic bag. His entire backside wiggled with the motion of his wagging tail and his ears twitched briefly before he lunged, sliding across the plastic as it collapsed under his weight. The boys laughed loudly. The puppy then turned around and leaped towards them, climbing into Roger's lap._

"_He kind of reminds me of you," Mark said with a smirk, watching the dog fondly. "Same mischievous personality. Maybe we should call him Roger," he joked._

_Roger looked at the puppy thoughtfully. "No, we should name him after The King of Rock and Roll."_

_Mark snorted and shook his head. "We're not calling him Elvis," he argued, immediately vetoing the idea._

"_Not Elvis," Roger corrected. "Just King."_

_Mark watched the puppy stumble off of Roger's lap and hop up into his own, attempting to climb up and lick his face. He laughed. "I like it. King it is."_

* * *

_It had been a little over a week since they'd brought King home, and Roger's mom still hadn't found out. Roger had managed to scrounge up some money for a small bag of dog food, which he kept stashed in his room, and he'd been sneaking the dog in and out of the house for bathroom breaks multiple times a day. However, there had been quite a few accidents in his closet that he'd been forced to clean up with disgust. And though Mark wasn't there at night, he practically spent the week with his friend, helping him hide the puppy from his mother._

_They were currently relaxing in Roger's room and ignoring the homework splayed out around them. Mark sat on the comfy black beanbag chair on the floor and Roger was lying on his bed, King curled up contentedly against his side._

_Footsteps on the stairs caught their attention. "Roger?" called a voice. The steps were right outside the door, and she knocked lightly before beginning to turn the handle. Quicker than lightning, Roger snatched a blanket off of his bed and jerked it over himself and King, covering the puppy completely. The door opened. "Rog, what do you boys want for dinner?" Leslie asked._

_He shrugged nervously. "Uh, whatever."_

"_Are burgers okay?" She looked between the two of them, awaiting an answer._

"_Sure," they replied in unison._

_She nodded, gaze returning to her son. "Are you cold?" she questioned worriedly, noticing the blanket across his body. The house was warm and cozy, and there was no need for it._

"_Yeah, a bit," Roger lied. His eyes widened slightly, and Mark saw the blanket move. Luckily, to someone who didn't know better, it looked as though Roger had merely shifted his arm underneath._

_Leslie frowned. "Are you feeling okay?" she asked. "It's about 75 degrees in this house. You shouldn't be cold."_

"_I'm fine, Mom."_

_She stared at him, shaking her head. "Alright. You've been acting so strange lately," she muttered, retreating out of the room and pulling the door closed._

_Roger let out a relieved sigh, and Mark blew out a breath as well. That was way too close. Roger flipped the blanket off of himself and the dog, pushing it to the side. Without warning, the door swung open again._

"_Hey, Rog, I forgot to ask you if…" Leslie froze, eyes locking on the brown puppy crawling up onto her son's chest._

_Mark sucked in another breath. _Crap_, he thought. He saw Roger staring at his mom in horror, and his expression morphed into one of guilt._

"_Ummm, Mom," he started slowly, ignoring the puppy now licking at his jawline. "Meet King." He gave a nervous smile, perhaps hoping that the outcome wouldn't be as bad as they both suspected._

_Leslie's mouth was halfway open as she stared, and Mark could almost see the disbelief piling up inside of her. It seemed like a long moment before she blinked, swallowed, and clenched her jaw tightly. "Roger Lee Davis," she growled out, eyes fuming._

Oh shit, _Mark thought, _middle name…

"_Why is there a dog in this house?!" came the explosion from the woman. She pointed at the animal. "You know that I don't like dogs. I can't believe you'd hide one up here!"_

_Roger sat up, pulling King with him. "I know, Mom, but we found him abandoned in a cardboard box on the street." He ran a hand over the puppy's fur, scratching fondly at his ear. "I couldn't leave him there to die."_

_Leslie closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. "You can't keep him, Roger. And you should have told me as soon as you brought him in."_

"_Why can't we keep him?" Roger argued, a passionate look on his face. "I promise I'll take care of him."_

"_Roger, having a pet isn't all it's cracked up to be," his mother responded, tone firm. "You have them for years and you get attached, and then they die and you feel like you lost a family member." She shook her head. "You wouldn't like that, would you?"_

"_Everything dies," Roger countered aggressively. "That's like saying that you shouldn't have had me because ten years from now I might get sick and die."_

"_Roger, stop that," Leslie snapped in an angry voice. "That's different, and you know it."_

_Mark saw his friend's shoulders slump. "Mom," he said in a pitiful tone, pleading for her to understand. "I can't put him back out on the street."_

_He internally frowned. He could tell that Roger had already gotten much too attached to the stray dog. It was going to be tough to consider getting rid of him. Mark felt his friend's pain. He, too, would be sad to see King go._

_Leslie stared at her son. "You can't keep him, and that's final."_

"_Okay," Roger conceded quietly and dropped his head to look down at the puppy, disappointment written into every feature. He didn't even smile as King lifted his wet brown nose and gently touched it against his own, almost as if offering comfort._

_Mark saw Leslie sigh as she observed her son and the dog, and her tense shoulders released a bit. She approached Roger's bed and sat down next to him, eyes fixed on the animal that had invaded her home. Roger avoided eye contact with her, but the devastation on his face was obvious. "Look, Rog," Leslie said, reaching out a hand to brush it over his bleached hair. Her gaze was apologetic. "I know you've always wanted a dog, but we just can't keep him. They're too much trouble and they require a lot of care, and I can't deal with that." Roger nodded once. "I promise we'll find him a good home, okay?"_

"_Okay," Roger said quietly. Leslie stood up and walked towards the door. "I'll put up some flyers around the neighborhood and see if anyone's interested." She stepped out into the hallway, glancing back once more. "And by the way," she added, "you're grounded for a week starting tomorrow."_

_Roger nodded again, not even attempting to argue it, and Leslie shut the door as she left._

_Mark sat quietly, observing his friend's defeated body language. "Sorry, Rog," he said sincerely, and Roger shrugged._

"_Could have been worse," he mumbled, cuddling King in his arms. "I just wish she'd understand that it would be worth it to keep him. Nothing beats the kind of love you get from a dog," he said. "They'll stick with you even you if you're lost in life, or if you're poor, or if you're sick… It doesn't matter to them." He shook his head, frustration on his face. "How can she turn that down? Where else are you going to get that kind of affection?" Roger let out a sigh, and Mark could tell that he was completely serious. He knew that his friend suffered from feelings of loneliness even though they spent so much time together. It wasn't the same as having a sibling like Mark did—one who came along on family vacations and ate Thanksgiving dinner with you. And not only was he an only child, but Roger didn't even have a father… At least, not one that made him feel like he was worth something. Mark couldn't truly grasp how abandoned his friend must feel due to that fact alone._

"_Me," Mark said quietly._

_Roger gave him a confused look. "What?"_

_He spoke louder this time. "Me. You'll get that kind of affection from me." He smiled shyly at his friend, who was looking at him curiously. "I know I'm not King, but I'll stick with you even if you're lost in life, or if you're poor, or if you're sick," he said, replaying Roger's words in his head. "I promise."_

_A small smile tugged at Roger's mouth, and Mark was worried that he was going to call him out on the cheesiness of that little speech. But he didn't. Instead, he nodded. "Thanks, Mark," he said softly. "That means a lot."_

"So what happened?" Ryan asked eagerly when Mark paused. "Did you guys give King away?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, we did. Roger's mom found a family down the road that wanted a dog, and they fell in love with King when they saw him."

"Was Roger okay?" Jake questioned. "He wasn't too sad?"

Mark smiled. "He was sad," he admitted, "but he got to visit King a lot. The family would pay him to take King on walks when they didn't have the time. Roger loved it."

The kids nodded, smiles on their faces. "Do you think Mama would let us get a dog?" Ryan asked curiously, and Mark's eyes widened.

"I don't know, but don't sneak one in like Roger and I did," he told them nervously. "Please don't." Cindy would kill him if she found out he'd given them that idea.

The loft door opened loudly, and Mark raised his head to see Roger walk through the entrance, guitar case dangling from his hand. He smiled at them as he came in. "Hey guys."

"Hey Uncle Roger!" the boys called together.

Tasha jumped up and slid off the couch, sprinting across the living room and crashing into Roger's legs with a huge grin. He stumbled after the almost-tackle, but then laughed and lifted the small girl into his arms. "Hey Tash," he greeted with a bright smile. "How are you?"

"Good!" she answered enthusiastically, arms around his neck. "Uncle Mark just told us a story. 'Bout King!"

Roger's eyes widened, and his smile grew. "Oh, man, I miss that dog," he said, taking a seat next to Mark on the couch. He put Tasha down between them.

"Do you wish you had a dog now?" Jake questioned, head tilting slightly as he looked to the musician.

Roger pursed his lips in thought and leaned back. "Sometimes," he replied. "But I've got something even better."

"What?" Tasha wondered, managing to situate herself so that she was sitting close to both of them at the same time.

Roger lifted his left arm onto the backrest of the couch, and Mark felt the man's hand squeeze his shoulder. "A best friend," he answered honestly, smiling. "Nothing beats the kind of love you get from a best friend."


	27. Chapter 27

******Enjoy :) And thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter!**  


**Chapter 27**

May 17, 1992

The loft was a bustle of activity on Sunday morning as Mark desperately tried to get the kids' belongings together. Cindy was supposed to be there around two to pick them up for the long drive back home, and he wanted to make sure that nothing was left behind. He was feeling a pang of sadness deep in his chest, but he studiously tried to ignore it as he prepared the bags of luggage. Unfortunately, there was one thing missing that he knew he absolutely _needed _to find.

"Tasha," he said loudly in an effort to get her attention. She was currently running around the living room playing tag with her brothers, expertly weaving between furniture and pairs of legs as Mark's friends wandered the loft, caught up in their own tasks. "Where's Brownie?" he questioned, bending down to look under the table. They'd been quietly searching for the stuffed animal for the last five minutes with no luck, and he was beginning to wonder if she'd already packed it away.

"I don't know, Uncle Mark," the little girl responded, eyes widening in worry. She became so distracted that she didn't even notice when Ryan tagged her shoulder.

"Did you check in your bedroom?" Mimi addressed him, peeking into the bathroom to see if the toy had somehow gotten there.

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I couldn't find it."

Collins was standing in the kitchen, gaze sweeping the area for anything that didn't belong in the loft. "I don't see him in here," he announced before walking into the living room and helping to rifle through the couch cushions. Mark looked towards Maureen and Joanne across the room, a silent question in his eyes. They shook their heads in denial. _Haven't seen him._ Mark felt a little nagging worry in the back of his mind. What if they'd accidentally left Brownie at a restaurant, or at the park when they went the other day? Tasha would be so upset, and he'd feel absolutely awful for losing her favorite toy.

Tasha hustled over to him now, an anxious look in her bright blue eyes. "What if he's lost forever, Uncle Mark?" she said, her small voice unsure. He could see that she already had tears forming at the thought.

He leaned down and lifted the young girl into his arms. "We'll find him, Tash. Okay?" He didn't actually know if that was true, but he needed to say something, and that was the only thing he could think of. She nodded and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. Mark smiled at her embrace, and then smiled wider when he saw Roger emerge from his bedroom, a stuffed brown bear dangling from his callused hand and a triumphant smirk tugging at his lips. "Look what Roger has," he said to the little girl, and she whipped her head around immediately, a large grin stretching across her features. He set her on her feet and she bounded across the loft, eagerly grabbing the bear that Roger held out to her and jumping into his open arms.

Roger chuckled as the little girl latched onto him tightly, standing up straight with her hanging around his neck. "Thank you!" Tasha exclaimed, suddenly planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, and Mark and the others couldn't help but laugh at the little girl's affection and the look on the musician's face.

"I think someone might have a little crush," Maureen said quietly as she and Joanne joined Mark, Collins, and Mimi next to the couch. They snickered in agreement. Mark had no doubt that Tasha was somewhat smitten with his friend. He'd begun to wonder if that had been part of the reason she'd been so shy around him when they'd first met. It was cute, really, and Mark understood. He remembered having his own crushes on Cindy's friends when he was little.

Roger put the little girl down and she immediately grabbed onto his hand. "Come play with us!" she demanded, pulling him towards her brothers, who were still chasing each other through the loft.

He let her drag him along, but he shook his head. "I can't Tasha. I have to help your Uncle Mark get things ready for your mom."

Mark knew he should have just ignored the disappointed pout that the little girl put on, but he couldn't. He hated seeing her look upset. "It's okay, Rog," he said. "We got it. Just keep them entertained."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Jake suddenly tapped Roger's leg, a twinkle in his dark eyes.

"You're it!" he yelled before sprinting away, and Tasha quickly released Roger's hand, giggling madly to herself as she also scattered. Roger smiled slightly, shaking his head, and then shrugged.

"Better watch out," he warned, pointing at the two grinning boys crouched behind a chair on the far side of the loft. "I'm coming for you guys." It wasn't long before the man was deeply involved in the game and chasing the kids around the loft. He was effectively managing to keep them away from Mark and the others, who were packing up the kids' items and straightening the furniture. Mark smiled as he watched them play, amused at the way that the game seemed to have become three against one with his roommate being the odd man out. Within a few minutes, Roger somehow ended up at the bottom of a pile of small, squirming bodies who'd decided that it was time for a wrestling match. Mark chuckled as he packed up the leftover food that Cindy had brought.

He noticed that Mimi, too, was watching them scuffle as she helped him, and though there was a small smile on her face, it was a sad one. Her eyes didn't hold the same warmth that Mark felt.

"What's wrong, Meems?" he asked quietly as he placed the food sitting on the counter into paper bags.

She snapped her gaze over to him and blinked a couple of times, but he caught the gleam of tears before she could hide them. "Nothing," she answered evasively.

He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "It's obviously something," he countered gently. "What is it?"

She sighed and looked back towards Roger and the kids. He was laughing as they climbed all over him before he'd gently roll them off and pin them to the ground. "It's just… He would be a really good dad," she revealed quietly, and Mark paused in his task, setting the food in his hands back down. Now he understood.

He and Roger hadn't really talked about it much in the past couple of years, but Mark had always known. The truth was that Roger and Mimi would never have the opportunity to be parents. How could they? The odds of their baby being HIV positive were practically a million to one, if not worse, and neither of them could knowingly condemn their child to the same fate that they faced. And though Mark hated to measure his friends' lives in terms of years that they had remaining, there was no telling how long they'd be around to take care of a child, even if it was healthy. Would they even see it grow out of infancy? He knew neither of them could, in good conscience, bring a baby into the world that would have to grow up without its parents.

Mark wished there was something he could say to make her feel better, but there really wasn't. And she was right. After seeing the way that Roger handled the kids and how they seemed to gravitate towards him naturally, Mark was convinced that the rocker really would be a wonderful father.

It wasn't as if he ever thought that Roger would be a _bad _parent, but he was aware of his friend's insecurities after being subjected to the cruel treatment from his own dad. On the rare occasions that he'd been around, Roger's father had been a complete ass, and that was putting it nicely. Mark had never met him, but he clearly remembered a night when he was 14 years old and a shivering Roger showed up on his doorstep, eye swollen shut and lip split in half, nervously asking if he could spend the night. He was sore and upset and he hadn't said much as Mark cleaned up his face, but Mark was able to wring out enough information to conclude that his father had appeared drunk and angry, and Roger had accidentally gotten in his way. As far as he knew, that was the only time that Roger had been physically abused. But after that night, Mark had truly hated the still-faceless man with all of his heart.

He shook his head sadly, trying to rid himself of the depressing memory. "Yeah, he would be," he finally agreed before adding, "Just like you would be a great mom." He grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her into his side, offering as much comfort as he could without being too obvious. He sensed that this was a moment that she wanted to stay between just them.

She smiled at him with watery brown eyes. "Thanks," she said softly, and though he could still see the pain there, there was genuine sincerity as well.

He smiled and gave her a quick kiss on the top of the head before releasing her and returning to his task. He glanced once more into the living room and his smile grew. He happened to catch Roger placing a small kiss of his own onto Tasha's smooth forehead as she clung to him, and then he reached out and ruffled the blonde heads of the two young boys at his side. Observing him, it was hard to believe that he was related to a monster that had physically and verbally abused his only son. Because really, was Roger anything like his father? That man had, without a shred of remorse, left his family when things had gotten tough, forcing them to move on without him. Rather than face the realities of life, he'd fled them, and then he'd decided to return every once in a while to remind his family how much he didn't care.

Then Mark thought about Roger, and the biting comments that he and Mimi had directed towards him the day of Angel's funeral, just before the musician had left for Santa Fe.

"_Hey! For someone who's always been let down, who's heading out of town?"_

"_He was always run away, hit the road, don't commit, you're full of shit!"_

Mark pursed his lips. Maybe there'd been a time when his father's tendencies had crept their way into Roger's veins. But God, Roger had come so far. He'd been lost and confused in the year and a half following April's death, and he'd allowed that to dictate his relationship with his friends. But now… Now, Roger was different.

He felt a sudden wave of pride wash over him as he looked at his best friend of more than 20 years. There was one difference between Roger and his father that would always stand to separate them: Roger's love for his family was unquestionable. Undeniable. And though he may have left them once in a moment of weakness, he returned with a guilty mind and an open heart, and that was the only apology Mark needed.

* * *

When a knock sounded on the door about an hour later, Mark hurried to open it with a welcoming smile.

"Hey Cindy!" he greeted, pulling his sister into a hug.

"Hi, Mark," she returned, kissing him on the cheek. "It's nice to see all of you," she said when the others appeared in her line of sight. "And there they are!" Cindy exclaimed happily as the three children rushed at her. She bent down to wrap them all in a hug. "Oh, I missed you!" she said, kissing their cheeks.

"Missed you too, Mama!"

She smiled. "Did you have fun with your uncle and his friends?" she asked, running a hand over Tasha's hair, and the little girl nodded vigorously.

"Mama, Uncle Roger started teaching me how to play the guitar!" Jake told her enthusiastically, tugging at her arm as he spoke. His eyes were wide and pleading. "Can I get a guitar? Please? I promise I'll use it!"

Cindy raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked to Roger, who shrugged innocently. He was smirking.

"And Mama, Uncle Mark showed me how he makes videos with his camera!" Ryan added, practically jumping up and down in excitement. "I want to try that! Can I have a camera like his?"

Cindy glanced at Mark in exasperation. "I told you they're exactly like you guys," she said, an amused glint in her eyes. "It's seriously like raising you and Roger all over again."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he joked. There was a round of laughter from the others, and Mark exchanged a proud look with his roommate, who was standing right beside him. _Perfect_, he thought. The amount of joy that he felt when she said that was unexplainable.

"Really though, Mark, I can't thank you enough for doing this," Cindy said, standing up straight. She then looked past him to the others. "All of you," she added. "I know everybody helped out."

Collins smiled widely. "Not a problem. Mark and Roger did most of the tough stuff," he explained with a wink at them.

Mark shrugged in dismissal. Quite frankly, he'd enjoyed himself immensely, and he knew Roger had as well. "Hey, do you want to come sit down?" he asked his sister suddenly, realizing that he probably should have done that sooner. "Have a cup of coffee maybe?"

She paused in consideration, and then shook her head reluctantly. "I'd love to, but I'd better not," she said sadly. "I'd like to get these guys home ASAP."

"I understand," he said. "Well, their luggage is all ready to go, and there's some leftover food that you'll want to take back with you." He pointed to the metal table where a few suitcases and paper bags rested.

Cindy shook her head. "No, Mark, you guys keep the food." She smiled. "At least I know it'll get eaten around here."

That offer was too good to give up. Any chance to obtain something other than Cap'n Crunch and milk was one they took, especially if they didn't have to pay for it. "Okay," he agreed, and then smiled. "If you insist."

She chuckled knowingly. "I do." She looked down at the kids again, who were standing quietly beside her. "Ready to go?" she asked them, and they nodded. "Say goodbye."

The three children immediately ran towards the group of them, hugging the legs of Collins, Maureen, and Joanne, and squeezing Mimi tightly. There were looks of genuine disappointment on the kids' faces, and Mark could tell that they were truly upset that they'd have to leave everyone behind. Before long, the children were swarming him and Roger.

"I'll miss you," Ryan confided, his eyes sad as he clung to Mark's neck. Jake was currently wrapped up in Roger's embrace.

"I'll miss you, too," he answered. "But we'll talk soon, okay? Have your mom give you our number, and you can call anytime. Deal?" Ryan nodded. "That goes for any of you," he added, looking to Jake and Tasha as well. He released Ryan to accept a long hug from Jake, and then laughed when Tasha jumped into his arms. "Bye, guys," he said. He could tell that Roger was also having a tough time letting the kids go. They'd developed a strong attachment.

Finally, they finished their hugs and stood up, taking a step backwards. "Alright," Mark said, watching as Cindy handed the luggage to her kids and then threw some over her own shoulder.

"I guess we're off then," she concluded. She leaned in for another hug. "Thanks again, Little Brother. I really appreciate it. Take care of yourself, okay?" There was concern in her voice, and in that moment, he sensed a great deal of their mother in her. More than he dared to admit.

Instead, he just smiled. "Will do."

She released him and reached out for Roger as well. "Thank you," she repeated. "It was great to see you, Rog. Be good."

"Always am," he joked. "It was nice to see you too, Cindy."

She smiled and pulled away, and then with a final round of waves and spoken 'goodbyes,' she led the kids out of the loft door, closing it behind them with a loud snap.

Mark sighed as silence fell, and it was almost an unfamiliar sound. In the past week, never had the loft been silent. There was always one kid asking for something to eat, or another making sound effects as they played with a toy. He already missed it.

"Well," Maureen spoke up suddenly, "I have to admit that I'm impressed."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

"You guys managed to take care of them for an entire week without corrupting their innocent brains."

He pursed his lips and then shrugged, deciding that it actually was quite a feat. Everyone seemed to come out of it both mentally and physically intact.

And then Collins added, "Yeah, but Cindy's going to have a hell of a time convincing the twins that they don't need a guitar or a video camera." He laughed. "That's going to be an expensive birthday."

Mark chuckled and then reached over to slap Roger lightly on the back. "I don't know about you," he said, "but I don't really feel that bad about it."

Roger shook his head, eyes sparkling. "Not even a little," he added, and the loft became rowdy once more as they all collapsed onto the furniture, wasting the rest of the day in the company of friends.

**Well, I'll be honest... I really struggled with this chapter, and it still didn't turn out quite how I wanted it. You win some, you lose some, I guess. Anyway, please share your thoughts :) I'm particularly interested in finding out if people are satisfied with the pace of the story. I kind of feel like it's moving rather slow, especially since I'm planning to write them all the way through to December, so I'm thinking I might try to speed it up a little bit.**


	28. Chapter 28

**Okay guys! I'm apologizing in advance for the length of this author's note, but it's important to read...**

**So here's the deal. I've been going through this story and fixing up some of the things that I felt needed attention. For example, I removed one chapter completely (the chapter taking place on Valentine's Day), which was hard to do, but it had no impact on the story. I changed the dates that things happened, and spread some of the chapters out further on the timeline. I added more detail and explanation to certain scenes. In addition, one of my reviewers last chapter asked me to clarify why Tasha felt the way she did about Roger, and to address the fact that Roger would probably get media attention for helping Erin with the mugger. So I've gone back and done that, too! (Thanks for the reviews last chapter, by the way!) I did my best to fix things and to make this story generally better grammar-wise as well as content-wise. Now, don't be alarmed. There's no reason that you need to re-read the entire story. However, I would recommend going back to chapter 18 and reading the scene where Roger tells Mark the words that Angel spoke to him, because I changed those words, as well as the last half of chapter 20, where the journalist makes another appearance. Those could be important later in the story. If you're feeling up to some extra reading, I'd go through chapters 13, 14, and 15 again, which are where I think I made the most changes. They're not huge and you probably won't even notice some of them, but I feel better with them in there.**

**Anyway, here's the next chapter! It's kind of all over the place, but there were a couple of different things that I wanted to address. Enjoy :) **

**Chapter 28**

June 13, 1992

Summer hit quickly in Alphabet City, and Mark thoroughly enjoyed the break from the cooler weather they'd been experiencing. It was refreshing to wander the loft in a tee-shirt and feel comfortably warm.

That Saturday afternoon was bright, and the sun shone cheerfully through the window and the broken skylight above his head. His camera was leaning lightly against his leg as he bent over the projector aimed against the wall. Finally, he felt like he had some time to devote to his film. With everything that had happened in the past couple of months, he'd been practically ignoring it—at least, the editing aspect. He'd made sure to film anything and everything that he could, even while Roger had been in the hospital, but it had just been too time-consuming to sit down and cut it together.

_That's not completely true,_ he scolded himself. When he really thought about it, he knew he was making up excuses. In all honesty, he'd had quite a bit of free time, especially on the days when Roger had been too weak to do anything but lie on the couch and sleep. He just hadn't used that time productively. In fact, some part of his brain was highly aware that he'd purposely avoided editing his film. He was struggling so much with piecing it together that the process wasn't enjoyable, and he found it less frustrating to pretend like he was much too busy. The anxiety it was causing had been getting to him. He'd even thought about setting the camera aside for a while until he was struck with a new idea, but he loved filming too much to consider that option for long.

As he began playing back one of the many reels, the irritation drained out of his body and he grinned. "Hey, Rog! Come here!" he shouted. On screen, he was watching The Well Hungarians just starting a show, the music kicking in quickly amidst the wild hollers of the crowd. He knew immediately which performance this was.

His roommate's head peeked out from his bedroom. "What's up?" He'd been off at rehearsal or something, though it had been an unusually long one. Actually, all of their rehearsals for the past few weeks had been extended. Mark figured that the band must have a new wave of songs to master, because Roger would disappear with his guitar for three or four hours a day.

Mark scooted over on the couch to make room for his friend. "You should watch this." He gestured to the screen, and Roger glanced at it before shrugging in compliance and falling into the couch beside him.

The musician furrowed his brow. "When was this?" he questioned after the first couple of verses, not able to separate out the various performances in his mind.

Mark smirked. "You'll see."

After a few more seconds, the Roger on screen bent over his guitar and began his solo, skillfully hitting every note. In the background of the shot, Jason, who was stuck behind the drum set, subtly nodded to Jeff and Cam. The guitarist and bassist released their instruments and reached into their back pockets, pulling out unidentifiable objects. Suddenly, the two musicians were running up to Roger, cans of Silly String in each hand, and spraying their frontman head-to-toe in the colorful stuff. A look of complete surprise covered Roger's face when the sticky plastic hit him, but it developed into a laugh as he shut his eyes and tried to turn away from the onslaught without messing up the music. Jeff and Cam were relentless, grinning wildly as they attacked him. Roger did his best to dance away, but he was at a severe disadvantage, and all he could really do was stand in resignation and take the abuse as he continued playing. The crowd cheered and laughed even louder than before. Eventually, the two men dropped the empty cans in satisfaction and picked up their instruments in time to rejoin the song. Roger remained front and center, shaking his head and smiling widely as he sang, the string clinging to every inch of him and his guitar. When the song ended, the members of the band grinned as they inspected their work, and then pulled Roger into a friendly embrace or ruffled his now-colorful hair affectionately. Roger chuckled as they exchanged words. He'd taken the joke in good humor.

Mark watched in amusement as Jeff comically pulled an almost endless strand of blue string off of Roger's face. This was the video that he'd taken of Roger's first performance after returning from his injury, filmed about a month ago. The band seemed to have decided that their friend deserved a welcome-back present.

Roger shook his head as he watched himself flicking the pieces off of his guitar. "That stuff stuck _everywhere_," he recalled with a smile.

Mark nodded. Even on the walk home, they'd laughed as they continued picking string out of Roger's hair and clothing. "You'll have to get them back sometime."

The musician's eyes remained glued to the screen, and Mark figured that he was remembering the show. That had been a hell of a night for him. Fans had gone crazy when Roger stepped on stage, and afterwards, he'd been mobbed by people seeking autographs or a hug. Many of the bar-owners who'd been looking to book the band at their own establishments approached Roger with time slots for a gig. And Mark remembered one specific man, dressed smartly in a crisp shirt and tie, sidling up to his friend with a strange smile and leading him off to a table in the back. Mark curiously watched them talk from across the club, observing as they ended their discussion with a solid handshake. When Roger returned and Mark questioned him about the man, he'd shrugged, saying, "Just a guy who liked the show." He'd had the strangest feeling that his friend was hiding something.

Roger's voice interrupted Mark's thoughts. "This is an awesome camera job," he said, nodding his chin towards the projector. "I can't wait to see how the rest of your film turns out."

Mark felt himself blushing slightly. "Thanks. But don't get too excited." He reached out and stopped the film reel with a small sigh. "If I don't find sudden inspiration, this one's gonna be crap."

Roger glanced at him. "That's what you said about the movie you made in high school. The one that got first place in that film festival."

Mark's eyes widened just slightly. "I'd almost forgotten about that," he admitted, surprised at himself. That had been a huge achievement—how could he forget? His mind flashed back to that day ten years ago, when he'd been 16 years old and uncomfortably standing on stage...

_He stared out at the audience anxiously. The auditorium was packed with people, both parents and students alike, who were there to see their friends, sons, and daughters screen the films they'd produced. There was a panel of judges critiquing the projects based on content, camera work, and editing, and the film with the most points won first place. His eyes locked on his parents, sitting in the second row. They were wearing proud smiles, and his dad gave a hearty thumbs-up._

_He was grateful that they'd come to show support, but he almost wished that they hadn't. He knew that his film had been horrible, and there was no way he would win a prize. In fact, he'd probably get last place. His face burned as he thought about it. How embarrassing would that be? The only reason he'd entered the festival was because Roger strongly encouraged him, and promised to come support him if he did. He'd agreed, figuring that as long as Roger was there, it wouldn't matter if he did poorly. At least his friend would give him a hug and be proud of him either way. But as it turned out, Roger had been grounded for skipping class the day before and wasn't allowed to leave the house. _

_Mark was self-conscious about having just his parents present. He felt the need to please them—to show them that filming was something he was good at, and that's why he didn't want to go to school to be a doctor. He didn't want to see the disappointment on their faces when he lost this competition, confirming their beliefs that he spent too much time with his camera for nothing._

_As the woman running the festival approached the podium with the judges' scores in hand, Mark's stomach flipped. He just wanted to get this over with._

_The woman spoke clearly into the microphone, a smile on her face. "After adding up the scores, we have determined our top three competitors. In third place, we have Sarah Coleman!"_

_The auditorium broke out into applause, and Mark looked down the line of students to see a girl step forward happily to accept the medal and the gift certificate given to winners. He recognized her from some of his classes. She seemed like a nice girl. _

"_In second place," the woman continued, "Matthew Bryant!" More applause as the boy received his award as well. _

_Mark sighed internally, strongly wishing to just go home. He looked up once more, staring towards the back of the gym. His eyes locked onto a familiar blonde head, and he immediately recognized the black leather jacket that accompanied it. Roger!_

_His best friend leaned casually against the wall, looking as though he'd been there the whole time. There was a knowing smirk on his face as he returned the stare, and he gave a little nod._

_Mark felt a smile pull at his lips, and his heart felt instantly lighter. It wouldn't be so bad when he lost. Roger would make some stupid joke to play it off, and they'd carry on with their lives, forgetting the whole thing._

"_And in first place, the winner of our competition is Mark Cohen!"_

_He turned his head towards the podium as the crowd broke out into cheers and applause. Funny, the winner's name sounded a lot like his… _

_His eyes met the warm gaze of the woman at the microphone as she gestured for him to come. He felt a couple of hands push him forward. _Wait_, he thought numbly. _Me? I won?

_He dazedly accepted the medal the woman placed around his neck and reached for the gift certificate she handed him. His parents stood at their seats, clapping and grinning enthusiastically. Mark's eyes swiftly passed over the rest of the audience, once again seeking his best friend._

_Roger hadn't moved much, but his face was now covered in a wide smile. He shrugged smugly as if to say, "I told you so," and then pumped a fist into the air in celebration, whooping loudly. Mark laughed. _

_When the ceremony was over and the gym began clearing out, he met his parents down on the floor. They hugged him tightly._

"_Nice job, Mark!" his mom praised, kissing his cheek. "That was great, Sweetie!"_

_He'd just stepped out of his dad's embrace when someone crashed into him from behind, wrapping their arms around him in a fierce hug. He knew who it was before they even spoke. _

"'_Atta boy, Markie!" Roger's voice sounded enthusiastically next to his ear._

_He grinned, breaking free from his friend's grasp and turning to meet his eyes. "I thought you were grounded," he said. _

_Roger nodded. "I am."_

"_How'd you get out?"_

_His friend smirked again, eyes sparkling mysteriously. "I have my ways."_

_Mark shook his head. "Thanks for coming," he said sincerely. "But you shouldn't have. I don't want you to get into more trouble." _

_Roger shrugged in dismissal. "I promised I'd be here," he reminded, as if that was the only justification needed. "But, uh, I do have to go," he admitted reluctantly. "My escape methods aren't exactly flawless, and Mom's going to flip if she finds out I'm gone."_

"_Okay," Mark said with a nod, and Roger smiled before pulling him into a hug once more._

"_I'm proud of you, Man," he whispered. "You earned this."_

_Somehow, those words were all Mark needed to hear. He didn't want a ton of praise heaped onto him. To know that Roger, the friend he loved and respected more than any other, had this much faith in his film? That was an amazing feeling. "Thanks, Rog."_

_They stepped apart, and with a final wave, Roger spun around and hustled towards the door. Mark watched him go before turning to his parents and smiling. "I'm ready to go home," he announced. They nodded, and Mark felt a large hand squeeze his shoulder. He sighed in content as they left the gym, his dad's arm comfortably draped around him._

He was overcome with warmth at the fond memory, and he could feel Roger's gaze on him.

"You should find another festival when this film's done," the musician suggested. "Let people see your work."

"Maybe," Mark replied noncommittally. "I think I need to focus on finishing it first."

Roger nodded. "Fair enough." He pushed himself up from the couch. "I'm going to go grab some lunch," he said. "We're out of food, and I'm starving. Want to come?"

He was quite hungry as well, but he couldn't leave the loft at the moment. "Erin's supposed to be here in a couple of minutes," he explained. Their first date quickly led to a second and a third, and they'd finally made their relationship official about a week ago. His heart fluttered just thinking about her. He still couldn't quite believe how lucky he was.

"She can come, too."

At that, Mark nodded. "Okay." He was sure that Erin wouldn't mind lunch with Roger. As she began spending more time with them in the last month or so, the others readily took her in, becoming fast friends. It became apparent that Roger, in particular, held a special place in her heart, and she in his. Mark didn't begrudge either of them for it. Roger had probably saved her life, and it was understandable that they felt a connection based on that fact.

There was only one reason that he wished she hadn't taken so strongly to his little posse. He briefly recalled the conversation he'd had with her just a week ago, before deciding to solidify their relationship…

"_Mark, are you okay?" she asked gently as he walked her home that night, putting a comforting hand on his arm. They slowed to a stop, and she looked at him worriedly. "You seemed kind of quiet today." They'd spent the day roaming the city with the others, just enjoying the weather and the company._

_He studied her carefully for a moment, sighing internally. She'd had such a good time hanging out with his friends. She fit in with them. She understood their feelings and their humor, and she wasn't afraid to join the teasing that flew between them. She loved his friends, and they loved her as well. That should have made him happy—but in reality, it made him uneasy._

"_Please tell me what's wrong," she begged._

_He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I like you, Erin. A lot. And I like when you come to spend time with me. I want this relationship to be more than just an occasional date," he explained nervously. _

_She smiled, nodding her head, but he could see the confusion in her eyes as to why there was a problem. "I do too, Mark."_

_His heart jumped a little, but he continued speaking. "If you spend time with me, then that means you'll spend time with my friends, too. And you'll get attached to them. You already are."_

_Her brow furrowed. "Is that a bad thing? I thought you'd be happy that we get along so well." _

"_I am," he said, "but I need to tell you something, because it's only fair that you know."_

_Her dark eyes were scared as he spoke. "Okay, so tell me."_

_He grabbed her hand and turned it over in his own, clasping it tightly. "Most of my friends are HIV positive, Erin." He looked up to meet her eyes, which stared into his own intensely. "They're sick. And none of us know how long they have. It could be years." He paused. "It could be months." A lump of emotion caught in his throat, but he pushed it down like he always did. "I want to be with you more than anything. But I want you to know that being together might mean watching my friends die. Watching _your _friends die."_

_She'd raised a shaking hand to her mouth, and Mark could see tears brimming her eyes. The look of shock and devastation on her face came as a physical blow to his gut._

"_Knowing that, I just need you to tell me whether you want this to continue," he said sadly, almost positive that he'd just lost her forever. "I understand if it's too much to handle," he added, and then let out a humorless laugh. "Trust me, I understand."_

_She was quiet for a long moment, and then she finally spoke up. "Who has it?" she asked quietly._

"_Mimi. Collins." He swallowed. "Roger." His gaze dropped to the ground. He hated this. He hated that he had to cause her this much pain. It was good that he'd told her early. She could get out now, before her involvement ran too deep. God, thinking like that made him feel so guilty. He wasn't trying to portray his friendships with them as burdens—they weren't. Not at all. But he cared about her too much to keep her in the dark._

_A pair of warm hands grabbed his face, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. She was crying. "I want to be with you, Mark," she said firmly, brushing his cheek with a thumb. "I want to spend all the time I can with you and your crazy friends. I want them to be my friends. I want to be there for everything." Her gaze was strong and determined._

_Mark's shoulders sagged in relief and he let out a breath, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. "Thank you," he said gratefully, and leaned down to kiss her._

"Okay," Mark said again, pulling himself out of the memory. "I'm in."

The phone rang suddenly. "Speeeeeeaaaaaakkkkk."

Mark didn't recognize the voice on the other end when the message began. "Hello, I'm looking for Roger Davis. This is Jack Connelly from-"

The message was cut off as Roger quickly picked up the phone, and Mark listened to the one-sided conversation curiously. "Jack? Hey. Yeah, how'd it turn out? Sweet. Tomorrow? Yeah, sure. How many do you want to do? Sounds good, we'll be there. Thanks. Bye."

Mark watched as Roger set down the phone, a trace of a smile on his lips. "What was that about?" he questioned.

Roger shrugged lightly. "Nothing. Just band stuff."

Mark nodded, but he suspected that Roger wasn't telling him the whole truth, and he almost felt a little hurt by it.

_Oh, well_, he thought. _If it's something important, he'll let me know eventually._ At least, Mark _hoped _he would.


	29. Chapter 29

**Next chapter is up! Sorry about the wait. I had a lot of fun writing this one, mostly because the idea had been in my head for a while and I just needed to get it out. So here you go! Enjoy! :)**

**Disclaimer: **The lyrics aren't mine! They're from The Beatles and a song called Those Nights by Skillet. :)

**Chapter 29**

July 4, 1992

"Happy Independence Day!" Maureen shouted obnoxiously, sliding open the loft door with a loud bang. Mark's heart jumped wildly at the sudden intrusion. He saw Roger start as well, his eyes widening as he almost dropped the plate clutched in his grasp. "And happy birthday, Mark!"

"Holy shit, Maureen!" the rocker yelled in annoyance, turning to face her. "How about knocking next time?"

She shrugged, and Joanne slipped in behind her. "Sorry, guys," the lawyer apologized, giving Maureen a disapproving look. "She beat me to the door."

Mark nodded, turning back to the kitchen. "Thank you. Happy Fourth of July to you, too. What did you bring?" he asked curiously, craning his head to look into the bowls she was holding.

"A couple different salads, some coleslaw, and these fun little sandwiches that I wanted to try." She held them out so Mark could take a peek. His mouth began watering involuntarily.

"This looks awesome," he admitted. "You didn't have to make so much though. Everyone's bringing food."

She snorted. "Yeah, well, have you seen Roger eat? It'll be gone before you know it."

Roger shot her a glare. "Watch it."

She grinned in satisfaction and headed towards the table, setting the food down. Joanne held out her own dish. "And since it's your favorite, we made an apple pie. As a birthday present."

He took it from her gratefully, touched at the thought. "Thanks!" He was one of the lucky ones who shared a birthday with America. He actually loved having a birthday on the Fourth. Sometimes he could pretend like people were lighting off fireworks just for him. "The others should be here soon. We're just getting some stuff ready."

"Do you think this'll be enough burgers for everyone?" Roger asked, taking a stack of frozen patties and a bag of buns from the freezer. They were planning on grilling, but since they didn't have a barbeque at the loft, they were going to head down to the park and claim one of the grills at the picnic area there. It was a hot day, almost 90 degrees, and it would be nice to spend it outside. Plus, if they staked out a good spot, they'd be able to watch a great firework show.

Mark shrugged. "It should be fine. We'll have tons of food."

A knock sounded at the open door, and Mark looked over to see Erin poke her head inside. He grinned at her. "Hey!" he greeted, hearing the others echo him.

"Hey," she answered happily. "Happy birthday!" He opened his arms to her, allowing her to step into his embrace, and kissed her lips lightly. His heart fluttered at the contact. He'd never get over how much he enjoyed that. She was perfect for him.

She pulled away and held out a tray with some fruit and vegetables arranged in a pretty pattern. "Here you go," she offered. "It's not much, but it should be enough as long as we keep it away from Roger," she teased lightly, giving the musician a sideways glance.

Roger raised his head, an aggravated expression crossing his features. "Everybody's a fucking comedian," he mumbled.

Mark smirked, ignoring the grumbling. He took the tray from Erin's hand and set it on the table with the others. "Perfect. Just waiting on Collins and Mimi."

"Wait no longer!" a deep voice boomed. "The party has arrived! Happy birthday!"

Mark turned to see Collins strolling in, cases of beer and a plastic bag in each hand, and a wide grin on his face. Mimi followed behind him, shaking her head in exasperation at his entrance.

Roger again looked up excitedly when the man entered. "Did you bring them?" he questioned eagerly, eyes shining. Mark furrowed his brow in confusion.

The professor put down the beer and looked at Roger with incredulity. "Did I _bring _them?" he repeated, as if amazed that he was being asked such a thing. "Boy, I'm going to pretend that you didn't just doubt me. Of course I brought them!" He held out the plastic bag he was holding, and Roger hustled over.

"Yes!" He took the bag and reached in, pulling out boxes and looking at them with excitement. "Sweet."

"What are they?" Mark wondered, walking closer. He snatched one of the boxes from Roger's hand, looking at the pictures on the label. "Fireworks?"

Roger nodded, digging through them again.

"You bought _fireworks_?" Mimi questioned, staring at Collins in disbelief. The professor's face fell slightly at her tone, like perhaps he knew that answering truthfully would send him directly to the doghouse. "Do you remember what happened last time you guys had fireworks?" She looked between Collins and Roger expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Roger froze, the arm currently rooting through the plastic bag stilling immediately and his eyes widening. Collins, too, cocked an eyebrow. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said unconvincingly, an amused sparkle passing through his stare. "Do you, Rog?"

Roger shrugged and shook his head innocently. "Nope."

Maureen snatched the box out of Mark's hand. "I do," she chimed in with a smirk. "I seem to remember you two almost blowing up the loft. And almost losing some fingers in the process."

Mark shook his head at the memory, and he saw Erin's curious expression morph into one of surprise. That had been an interesting experience, to be sure, and one that they probably shouldn't repeat anytime soon.

"Yeah, _almost_," Collins reiterated. "But we didn't. Besides, Roger doesn't need his pinky anyway," he joked. He grabbed the bag of explosives and closed it up, putting it on the table and standing in front of it protectively.

Mimi rolled her eyes. "Right."

"Relax, Meems, we'll be careful," Roger promised. He returned to the kitchen and gathered the burgers and buns, tossing them into an ice chest with some other food. "Alright, let's go," he said, hefting it into his arms.

Mark nodded, and they lifted the rest of the stuff off of the table before heading out the door.

* * *

The park was crowded and lively. Men and women brought their families down to spend the day, and large groups of friends gathered in clusters across the grass, enjoying each other's company. Many of them were playing with Frisbees, soccer balls, or footballs, and there was a constant buzz of friendly chatter floating through the air. Mark took in a deep breath. It was nice to spend a day out of the loft, and the sun felt good on his skin. It was almost too hot, though, especially when he stepped out of the shade. The girls had stripped down to their tank-tops, and he, Roger, and Collins had eventually removed their shirts to avoid getting them sweaty and disgusting. He could feel his back burning slightly, but he didn't care.

He was just finishing the last of the food on his plate when Mimi stood up. "Time for Mark's birthday cake!" she exclaimed, dancing her way across the grass. She pulled a large chocolate cake out of the cooler and popped the plastic lid off.

Roger and Collins looked up eagerly from where they were rifling through the stash of beer- or what was left of it. The two men had consumed an impressive amount of the alcohol already, and they were obviously feeling the effects. Both of them were giggly, goofy, and chatty, which amused Mark to no end, especially since he was actually sober and could enjoy their stupidity in its entirety. He encouraged them to drink as much as they wanted purely for his own entertainment purposes.

"Awww, I'm stuffed, though," Mark protested, glancing up at Mimi and setting down his plate. "If I eat anymore I'm going to explode."

Mimi looked at him and shrugged in dismissal. "Well, tough, because I want cake. Suck it up."

He stared at the fiery Latina for a minute, and then nodded in resignation. It was best not to argue. He had no doubt that she'd win.

Mimi proceeded to open two small boxes of colorful candles and dumped them out onto the picnic table, herding them back into place as they began to roll away. Mark watched as she took her time arranging them across the cake's thickly frosted surface, then leaned back and proudly admired her work.

"Perfect," she concluded. With sparkling eyes, she turned to Roger. "Got a light?"

He smirked knowingly, and Mark figured there must have been some private joke there that he wasn't a part of. Roger reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter, and tossed it to her. "We should put fireworks in there instead of candles," he joked. "It'd be like a game. If he doesn't blow them out fast enough, it explodes."

Mark pursed his lips as he imagined himself frantically puffing at the fuses of the fireworks stuck into his cake. "Maybe next year," he said, clearly picturing the frosting splattering onto his face as the dessert burst into pieces.

Mimi finished lighting the last of the candles. "Alright, come on." She motioned for them to join her around the table. "Twenty-seven, Mark. You're getting old," she teased.

He nodded. "I know." God, he_ felt_ old. His only consolation was that Roger and Collins were older than he was. Collins was 29 and Roger had already turned 27 back in May. He sucked in a breath of air, preparing his diaphragm to exhale deeply.

"Wait, wait! We need to sing happy birthday!" Maureen exclaimed loudly, grabbing his arm before he could proceed. He felt his face turning red. He hated when people sang that stupid song to him. It put him at the center of attention, which he didn't enjoy unless others were there with him.

"You're right," Collins agreed. "On three. One, two, three!"

They launched into the song, though Roger had spontaneously decided to completely change the tune. His voice was rising and falling obnoxiously as he created his own interesting version, throwing everybody else off in the process, and Mark smiled. The guy was such a dork sometimes, especially when he'd been drinking.

They ended the song with a loud cheer, and Mark quickly leaned over the cake. _I wish for more days like this,_ he thought to himself, and easily blew out the small dancing flames. They patted him on the back and wished him a happy birthday enthusiastically, and Erin gave him a kiss.

"You were a little out of tune there, Rog," Maureen teased, licking chocolate frosting off the bottom of a candle.

Roger turned towards her, a thoughtful expression on his face. Without warning, he suddenly broke out into song. "_What would you do if I sang out of tune/ Would you stand up and walk out on me?_" His gravelly rock-and-roll voice belted out lyrics that Mark recognized immediately, having grown up listening to them. Maureen raised a surprised eyebrow at the unexpected action. Roger just smirked, incredibly pleased with himself for working the lyrics into the conversation. He continued loudly, apparently not concerned with any attention he was drawing. "_Lend me your ear, and I'll sing you a song/ and I'll try not to sing out of key_."

Roger leaned towards Collins and nudged his arm in encouragement, a playful energy overtaking him. Without missing a beat, the professor grinned widely and enthusiastically sang out the next few lines. "_Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends/ Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends/ Mmm, I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends_."

Mark laughed at their sudden departure into the world of music. The girls stared at the two obviously drunk men in amusement, shaking their heads. He noticed Erin glance around briefly, apparently feeling slightly embarrassed. He snickered internally. She hadn't yet learned that others might consider this strange, but it was quite normal when they got together.

"_What do I do when my love is away_?" Roger sang, shrugging in uncertainty to match the lyrics. "Sing with me, Markie!" he called with a goofy grin, taking a clumsy step sideways and reaching out to grab Mark's shoulder. Mark tried to push him off, aware of the fact that his best friend was quite impaired at the moment, but Roger wasn't having any of it. He pulled him tighter. "Sing with me," he demanded, and Mark rolled his eyes, but gave in.

"_Does it worry you to be alone?_" he responded.

Roger continued. "_How do I feel by the end of the day?_"

"_Are you sad because you're on your own?_" The lyrics came to him easily. He'd known this song by heart for years, and it felt good to stretch his vocal chords once more.

Roger released Mark and threw his hands in the air, attacking the chorus with gusto. "_No, I get by with a little help from my friends_," he sang.

Mark smirked, adding, "_Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends_." That was true… Collins passed him a joint every now and then, allowing him to take a puff if he wanted. He didn't do it often because it made him feel sick, but once in a while, he felt adventurous and gave it a shot.

"_Mmm, I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends_." Roger nodded his head to the beat as they worked their way through the verse, and he was drawing some strange looks from people sitting near them. He obviously didn't care, though. None of them did. They were used to people staring, and they even welcomed it, as long as it was on their own terms.

Mark was truly getting into the song now, and he joined Roger in singing the bridge. "_Do you need anybody?/ I need somebody to love/ Could it be anybody?/ I want somebody to love."_

Mark grinned when, mid-lyric, Roger nodded a casual, friendly greeting to an older man who observed them curiously as he passed. The man waved back somewhat cautiously, his lips tugging upwards in the makings of a smile.

He began the final verse eagerly, enjoying the opportunity to dance around a bit and feeding off the enthusiasm of his cheering friends. "_Would you believe in a love at first sight?"_ He let his gaze wander to Erin, and her laughing eyes met his as she watched them perform.

Roger smiled, pointing at Mimi, and then dragging her into an embrace. She fought against him in a joking manner, but eventually melted into his arms. "_Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time_," he responded, hugging her to his chest.

Mark continued with his part. "_What do you see when you turn out the light?"_

"_I can't tell you, but I know it's mine."_

"_Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends," _Mark belted out, gesturing to all of them. Maureen and Joanne raised their drinks in a silent toast, acknowledging the truth of that statement.

"_I _stopped_ getting high with a little help from my friends_," Roger added with a grin, smacking him and Collins on the shoulders, and they all let out a loud cheer at the personal spin he'd put on the lyrics.

He and Roger finished together, their voices blending comfortably. "_Mmmm, gonna try with a little help from my friends/ with a little help from my friends/ with a little help from my friends!"_

When the lyrics ended, Mark leaned over and pulled Roger towards him in a sweaty side hug. They laughed and gave an exaggerated bow as the people sitting on the grass near them began clapping and whistling at the conclusion of their impromptu show.

"Nicely done, Marcus," Roger praised, his eyes sparkling with life.

Mark shook his head. "Don't call me Marcus," he warned good-naturedly, giving the musician a light elbow to the ribs.

Roger shrugged. "Fine, Markieeeeeeee." He drew out the last syllable for an abnormally long period of time.

Mark snickered at his best friend's behavior. "You're drunk."

Roger nodded. "Yessss, I am," he agreed. "Just let it be." With another huge grin, he suddenly launched into a new set of lyrics, his voice projecting loudly across the park. "_Let it be, let it be/ Let it be, oh let it be/ There will be an answer/ Let it be."_

Mark clapped a hand over Roger's mouth, muffling his outburst. "Okay, enough," he laughed. "You like The Beatles, we get it." He dropped his hand, and Mimi approached him with a piece of chocolate cake that truly looked like it could clog every single one of his arteries in about three bites.

"Here you go, Mark!" she said, offering it to him and pulling him into a hug. "Happy birthday! And happy Fourth of July!"

"Thanks, Meems."

She handed a piece of cake to Roger and then yanked him close. She ran her hand over the clearly visible scar on his right shoulder, a habit that she seemed to have developed since his accident, and smiled at him. "Love you," she whispered quietly, and Mark turned away, letting them have their moment.

He dropped himself at the table next to Erin. "Hey."

She grabbed his hand and turned it over in hers. "Hey. So, I didn't know you had such a good voice. Do you guys break out into song on a regular basis?" she questioned jokingly.

Mark's mind flashed back to the Life Café a couple years ago, and the poor waiter protesting loudly as he and his friends climbed up onto the dining tables and danced wildly. He raised an eyebrow. "Would it be weird if I said yes?"

She smirked. "Would it be weird if I said I'd like to join in next time?"

He chuckled, tugging her into his side. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Hey, Mark!" Roger yelled loudly, shoving the last of his cake into his mouth and speaking around the wad of chocolate. "Collins and I are going to go light some of these." He held up a box of fireworks. "Want to come?"

Mark nodded. "Sure." He put his uneaten dessert on the table and stood, turning to kiss Erin on the forehead. "Sorry," he apologized, feeling bad about leaving her, "but I have to make sure they come back in one piece."

Mimi overheard him and nodded. "Please do. The last thing we need is another hospital visit."

He took off at a jog, following his slightly stumbling friends across the park.

* * *

They got back to the loft just a little after 11. The firework show that the city put on had been even better than they'd expected, and the exploding red and white lights flashed repeatedly behind Mark's eyes whenever he blinked. His ears still rang from the massive booms that he'd not only heard, but felt deep within his chest.

"Mark! Joanne and I have a birthday present for you," Maureen said as soon as they entered into the loft.

"You guys didn't have to get me anything."

Joanne smacked his arm lightly. "Of course we got you something. Deal with it."

Maureen grabbed a package out of the purse that she'd left on the couch and handed it over. "Here you go!"

He took it curiously and tore the wrapping open, revealing a cardboard box. Using a key from his pocket to slice the tape holding the flaps together, he was able to pull out a couple rolls of film. "Hey, great!" He looked up, smiling as he glanced between the two women. "This is awesome! I'm on my last roll."

"We know," Joanne answered. "We figured you'd use them."

He nodded. "Thank you."

"Me next!" Collins enthused, handing over another package that he must have brought in earlier as well.

His gift consisted of a few books wrapped together, and Mark flipped through the titles with interest. He'd heard of a couple, but he'd never gotten the chance to read them.

"I think you'll like those," the professor put in, watching him turn them over in his hands. "They're great stories, and the writing is amazing." He and Roger had both laid off the alcohol and sobered up as the night wore on, and they were now able to hold a normal conversation.

"Perfect, thanks!" He gave his friend an appreciative hug, and when he stepped away, Erin slipped her hand around his elbow.

"I'm taking you out tomorrow," she explained with a smile. "I can tell you that we're going to start with a fancy dinner, and the rest is a surprise. And, you're going to leave your wallet here so that you're not tempted to pay for anything," she added.

He laughed, excited at the prospect of an entire night out with her. "That sounds wonderful. Thank you," he said, pulling her into his embrace.

"Okay, Mark," Mimi said, holding something else out to him. "I didn't have time to wrap it."

It was another large book, though it wasn't a regular novel. He flipped open the cover and came face-to-face with a page of photos of him as a very young child. He recognized most of them, but some he didn't recall seeing before. He turned through the thick pages slowly. There were _tons_ of pictures. Him, his family, Roger, Collins, Angel, Mimi, Mo, Jo… They were all there. Even Erin had found her way into some of them, though they'd only been together for a short time. He grinned as he looked over their laughing faces, instantly flashing back to whatever moment in time the picture had captured.

"Meems," he said quietly, shocked at the amount of work she'd put into the scrapbook. It had photos, quotes, decorations… It was beautiful. "This is amazing."

She smiled. "I'm glad you like it. We took some of the pictures out of that box in your closet, and some that Roger had of you guys as kids. And the others belonged to the rest of us." She shrugged. "I just thought you needed a better way to store all those pictures."

He glanced up to meet her eyes. "Thank you. I love it," he said sincerely.

"Alright, Rog, you're up," Collins said, falling into the couch and putting his shoes up onto the round table in front of him.

Roger nodded, and then turned to meet Mark's eyes. "Look, uh, I was kind of bouncing between a couple of different ideas for you this year," he explained, and pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "The first part of your present is this," he said, handing it over.

Mark took the envelope with a small smile, more than a little interested at what was inside. He slid his finger underneath the flap, breaking the sticky seal easily, and reached in, pulling out two tickets and a folded up piece of paper. His brow furrowed and he examined them more closely, focusing on the words printed across the white background. Suddenly, his eyebrows shot up, and he raised wide eyes to meet the sparkling gaze of his best friend. "No way," he whispered quietly. He looked down again, re-reading the font. "Roger, these are tickets to Rome. And a hotel reservation."

The musician chuckled and nodded. "I know what they are, Mark. I bought them, remember?"

Mark didn't respond, and just shook his head, handing the envelope back. "I can't take these. They're way too expensive. We can't afford it."

Roger pushed them back in his direction. "Actually, I can afford it. And I want you to have them. You've been talking about going to Italy for as long as I can remember." He smiled when Mark merely stared at him, speechless. "Look, there's two tickets. One for you, and one for Erin. I got them for next January, so when winter rolls around, you can get out of here for a while. Go do your filming in one of the most historic cities in the world instead of old New York."

Mark's mouth was still hanging open as he stared at the gift. He knew Roger had been making quite a bit of money with all of his gigs in the last several months, but this… this was insane.

He closed his jaw, swallowing hard. "Wow," he said. "Wow, Rog." He knew he should say thank you, but he was still a little bit too shocked to say anything intelligent.

"So, Roger, my birthday's coming up next," Maureen reminded jokingly. "Better start thinking about what vacation you're going to send _me _on."

Roger smirked. "I've got yours already," he answered. "It's a one-way ticket to Antarctica. Enjoy!" They laughed as she reached over and socked him in the shoulder. He rubbed the sore spot and turned back to Mark. "There's one more part to your present," he announced, grabbing the guitar leaning against the couch and taking a seat on a stool.

Mark was still overwhelmed at the fact that he'd gotten tickets to Europe and hoped desperately that Roger hadn't spent any more money on him. He and the others sat down around the living room as Roger situated the instrument on his lap. The man laughed self-consciously and looked around at all of them before settling on Mark once more.

"I don't know if you're going to think this is weird or whatever, but I had this song idea that wouldn't leave me alone, and I needed to write it. So, here it is."

He began playing the guitar softly, his focus on the shapes of the chords. Eventually, he started singing.

_I remember when  
__We used to laugh  
__About nothing at all  
__It was better than going mad  
__From trying to solve all the problems we're going through  
__Forget 'em all  
_'_Cause on those nights we would stand and never fall  
__Together, we faced it all  
__Remember when we'd_

_Stay up late and we'd talk all night  
__In a dark room lit by the TV light  
__Through all the hard times in my life  
__Those nights kept me alive  
__Listen to the radio play all night  
__Didn't wanna go home to another fight  
__Through all the hard times in my life  
__Those nights kept me alive_

_I remember when  
__We used to drive  
__Anywhere but here  
__As long as we'd forget our lives  
__We were so young and confused that we didn't know  
__To laugh or cry  
__Those nights were ours  
__They will live and never die  
__Together, we'll stand forever_

As Roger launched into the chorus for a second time, Mark was glad that he had a habit of keeping his eyes closed when he sang. He needed a minute to compose himself, and it was easier without anybody watching him.

Roger had written about them before, sure, but this felt different. This one was meant especially for him, as a personal story about the two of them, and that choked him up. And the lyrics he was hearing… God, the lyrics immediately took him on a journey through the past 27 years of his life. He remembered those nights well.

Those were the nights when he'd get so annoyed with his parents controlling ways that he and Roger would hijack their keys and drive around town, rolling down the windows and belting out songs until he'd calmed enough to go home. He'd walk in and greet his parents casually, feeling better after getting out of the house for a while. Those were the nights when Roger would stay over because his dad decided to show up and start yelling again. They'd camp out in the living room with plates of junk food and turn on some old television show, but then they'd get into a discussion about girls, music, film, or _whatever_, and end up ignoring it anyways. Those were the nights when some girl had just killed herself in their bathroom, and Roger was in withdrawal with a deadly disease pumping its way through his veins, and Mark wanted to cry because he didn't have a clue what to do, and they were cold and hungry and poor… But they'd turn up their dingy little radio and sit together on the couch, talking quietly so that neither of them had to fall asleep and dream about all that shit. _Those nights kept me alive._

Roger's lyrics eventually faded out, and all was quiet for a moment. Mark stared blankly at his best friend, his mind still playing out what seemed like all 27 years of his life in front of his eyes. It amazed him how many of those years were spent with the man sitting across from him. It was unreal, even. How could one person be so important? How did a tiny little boy with blonde hair, green eyes, and matching green paint splattered across the front of his shirt manage to wiggle his way into Mark's heart, and then build a fucking fortress there? It was scary, almost, that their bond was so strong, but he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

When he realized that he'd been sitting silently, he snapped out of his thoughts and met Roger's deep green gaze. He didn't quite know how to express the depth of his feelings at the moment, so he went with instinct. He stood up and walked across the sitting area, grabbing Roger by the arm and pulling him up into a hug. He threw his arms around the man and pulled him close, transferring all the love and respect he felt for his friend into that simple gesture.

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to thank you enough," he admitted quietly, letting his chin rest on Roger's shoulder. "But thank you. Thank you for everything."

He felt Roger squeeze him tighter. "You're worth it. Happy birthday."


	30. Chapter 30

**Alright guys, here's the next chapter! It's shorter than usual, and it's something a little different, but I really wanted to get Angel in a bit. Also, it gives me an opportunity to let Mark spill some of his thoughts, which are important to understand at this point in time. Believe it or not, we're going to start winding this story down soon, so I'm trying to kind of move into the final stages here. Thanks to those of you who reviewed last time, by the way!**

**Disclaimer: Pascal's Wager is a real thing, written by a real guy, and it's totally not mine :)**

**Chapter 30**

October 31, 1992

The city began to cool off again before Mark was truly ready for it. They'd spent the rest of the summer and the beginning of fall in a comfortable and familiar fashion. He'd been piecing his film together little by little, slowly working towards the finished product, and wasting a fair amount of his time at the coffee shop around the corner. It was a boring job, and one that he was planning on getting out of as soon as he could. He knew that he should try to move on to something that he enjoyed more, but he hadn't figured out exactly what that something was yet. Besides, Brandon paid him well, and he needed the money.

Roger, on the other hand, had spent the last few months performing at various establishments around the city, and he'd been earning more than he'd ever earned in his life. The Well Hungarians played multiple nights a week, and with their rising popularity, each gig made upwards of four or five hundred bucks. Roger had been pumping out more songs than he knew what to do with, and he was busy cramming in rehearsals to practice them all. It was usual for him to disappear for hours at a time to work on his music, and he would return exhausted and worn, but wearing a contented smile. Mark wished he'd slow down just a bit and make sure he was getting enough rest, but that was a thought he'd decided to keep to himself.

Unsurprisingly, he'd come home to an empty loft after leaving work that day. Rather than sit around in the silence, he'd elected to get outside and take a walk through the busy streets. The air was crisp and cold, but the sun reflected brightly off of the buildings around him. His breath condensed thickly in the fall air, trailing away from his lips and curling over his head in wispy clouds. He generally loved days like this. Something about the stark contrast between the sunshine and the frigid temperature always interested him. Today though… Today was a little bittersweet. _Halloween._

Before long, he found himself straying from the cracked and unforgiving concrete of the sidewalks, passing through an arched metal gate, and slipping onto a hilly lawn of healthy grass that stretched around him for what seemed like miles. Colorful trees shed their leaves as he watched, painting the green expanse with polka dots of orange and yellow and hiding the large stones set firmly into the ground. It didn't matter that he couldn't see the names intricately carved into each marble plaque; He remembered exactly where he was headed.

He wound his way between the graves of strangers whom he'd never met, taking care not to step on their resting places in various states of care. It was strange to think that there were thousands of people decaying beneath the ground on which he walked—people who'd lived their own lives, had their own stories, and died their own deaths. And each of them had someone who cared about them, who'd cried at their funeral and wished with all their heart to have their loved one back. _Just like we did._

He slowed as he reached his destination, and knelt down beside the simple square tombstone. Reaching out a pale hand, he brushed away the dirt and leaves, taking special care to clear the dark lines expertly chiseled into the rock.

_Angel Dumott Schunard_

_March 7, 1968- October 28, 1990_

"_I'll Cover You."_

Mark sighed as he leaned back and sat down, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs. He felt slightly awkward. This was the first time he'd been to her grave since they'd lowered her into it, and that made him feel guilty. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to come back—it just hurt too much. Now, staring at the name scrawled into the tombstone, he wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to do. _Ah, to hell with it._

"Hey, Angel," he said quietly, staring at the pattern in the gray marble and rocking backwards uncomfortably. "Ummm, I don't know if you can hear me or whatever, but uh, I miss you." He swallowed hard, her smiling face flashing through his mind as he replayed the single year he'd gotten to spend with her. She'd been such an amazing person, and one that could never be replaced. "It's been two years now since we buried you, but uh, I'm sure you already knew that," he added. "I'm sorry that I haven't come to visit. I should have, I know, but it just… It's not easy. Things are so much different now than they were when you… when you left. Maureen and Joanne, they're actually getting along, which is just weird. But it's great, too. They really love each other. I think they might even be talking about tying the knot, if you know what I mean. And Collins really likes the university. He enjoys the students, and he likes how they challenge him with their questions. Whenever he comes over, he always tells great stories about discussions in his classroom. He misses you too, obviously. I mean, he acts like he's fine, but I can tell that he thinks about you every day." Mark suddenly felt himself blushing, and he cleared his throat. He was rambling about all these pointless things, and he didn't even know if she was listening. Or if she _could _listen. But since he'd already started, he just kept going.

"You'd be so proud of Mimi, Angel. It's like she's got her life back, you know? She's the healthiest that I've ever seen her. She still talks about going back to school, but I think that idea scares her more than she's willing to admit. But she's been off the heroin for almost two years now, and she got a job at a restaurant as soon as since she made it through the withdrawal. Roger was so good with her. He wouldn't leave her side for weeks until she got clean, even though I know it was hard for him, too. I used to hear him crying out in his sleep sometimes, mumbling things about smack, withdrawal, and about April," he confessed softly, remembering how his heart had clenched painfully. "I never told him, but I heard a lot. I guess Mimi's ordeal was pretty rough on him, and his nightmares came back. But he's doing really well these days. God, you wouldn't believe how popular his band is, Angel. I think he's richer than all of us," he laughed, shaking his head. Suddenly, a memory hit him, and his mirth subsided immediately.

"He said he saw you," Mark recalled, squaring his body to face the stone and crossing his legs in front of him. "When he was bleeding out. He told me that he saw you standing in the alley with us, and that you said, 'The song's not over yet.'" Mark tilted his head in thought, pondering to himself. "He wasn't sure what you meant, but I guess you knew that he had a little more music left in him. Anyway, I told him I believed him. I want to, obviously, because I'm sitting here talking to you." He reached down and placed his hand in the grass, picking at the blades absently. "But honestly, I don't think I'll ever let myself completely believe in some kind of afterlife until I see it, you know?" He shook his head, sighing. He hadn't meant to spill all these internal thoughts, but he couldn't stop himself now. "I can't get my hopes up that I'll see you again someday—that I'll see any of you. Because if I don't see you, then it'll feel like losing everybody for a second time. And I can't handle that, Angel. Once is going to be hard enough." He licked his dry lips, gazing down at the solid stone in front of him. "That makes sense, right? I want to believe, but I just can't let myself. Not yet."

He finally trailed off, and a heavy silence fell over the cemetery. The stone gave no response to his private confession, and he remained quiet for a moment, relishing the stillness. It felt good to open up like that. And though he wasn't completely sure that Angel had been there to hear him, it was comforting to think so.

"If you're waiting for an answer," a deep voice said, causing Mark to whip around quickly, "you won't get one. I never do." His eyes settled on Collins' large form walking towards him. The man crouched down next to Mark and reached out a hand, brushing it over the grave of his lover and placing a small bouquet of flowers on top. "I talk to her whenever I'm here, but she never says anything back."

Mark watched curiously as Collins sat down next to him. "How long have you been listening?" he wondered.

Collins shrugged. "Long enough," he said, and then smiled. "No judgment here, Mark. I tell her everything, too."

"It's not that I don't believe she's with us," Mark clarified quickly, hoping that Collins wasn't upset by anything he'd heard. "It's just something that I won't know for sure until I find out for myself. You know, the whole afterlife thing."

Collins chuckled. "I know. It's okay." He shifted, leaning backwards onto his hands. "I had my doubts for awhile, as well."

"What convinced you?"

Collins smirked. "You ever heard of Pascal's Wager?"

Mark furrowed his brow and shook his head. "No. What is it?"

"Blaise Pascal was a philosopher, mathematician, and physicist," Collins explained patiently. "He wrote this piece where he forced his reader to make a bet on whether or not God exists; you have to choose one or the other, and there's no backing out. Basically, Pascal argues that a sensible man would bet on God's existence, because what do you have to lose? If you bet on him and he's not real, then you lose nothing. But if you bet against him and he is real, then you lose everything."

Mark bit his lip as he listened, trying to follow along. "So you believe in an afterlife because it wouldn't matter if it wasn't real?"

"Exactly. If there's no afterlife, then I won't be there to miss it, and neither will Angel. But if I don't believe and I turn out to be wrong, it might be that I'm not allowed in when the time comes. And then I wouldn't get to see her, Mark, and I'd truly lose everything."

"That's an interesting way to look at it," Mark responded, filing the information away in the back of his mind. "I kind of thought that anarchists generally weren't into the whole religion thing, though."

Collins smirked again. "I make certain exceptions."

Mark gave a small smile, but it faded quickly. "I miss her, Collins," he confessed, studying the man's face carefully. "I can't imagine how hard it is for you. I'm sorry."

The professor sighed deeply, his dark eyes sad. "I think we should celebrate tonight," he suddenly announced, and Mark was taken aback.

"Celebrate? Why?"

Collins shrugged. "Because she'd want us to celebrate her life, not mourn her death," he answered. "Because her favorite thing in the world was to have us all together, and we should make that happen for her. And because I miss her like hell, Mark, and I need you guys with me."

The last sentence was spoken softly, but Mark caught it anyway. He stared at Collins with sympathetic eyes, and squeezed his shoulder gently. "Okay," he agreed. "We'll celebrate."

Collins nodded gratefully, and they fell into over an hour of comfortable silence. Finally, when they'd both become stiff and sore from sitting, they raised themselves up onto their knees in preparation to leave. Mark gazed down once more at the dark stone. "Thanks for looking out for us, Angel," he said, running a hand over the smooth writing. "We love you." He let Collins say his goodbyes, and together they stood up and weaved their way through the headstones, leaving her peaceful grave behind them.


End file.
